GIFT  or 

Class  of  19C7 


r^c.\i 


bi^i:^^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/dustofdesertOOritcrich 


DUST  OF  THE 
DESERT 


BY 

ROBERT  WELLES  RITCHIE 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


Al«\ 


tK 


\ 


\  as 

CoprKi.jHT,  1922, 
By  DODD,  MEAi:    and  COMPANY,  IHC. 


PRINTKO    IN    THE    U.  S.  A.  BY 

gfte  ^tttnn  &  jBobtn  Cotnpanp 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW    JERSEY 


CON?"ENTS 

Prologue          .... 

nan 

1 

CHAPTllB 
I 

What   Happened    on    the   Lim 
ITED 

17 

n 

A  Girl  Nami  >  3enicia 

.       25 

III 

Doc  Stooder 

,       36 

IV 

Colonel  Urg      ^:pays  . 

.       51 

'"hl  Garden     •    Solitude    . 

.       65 

V 

jSTICE        .                  ... 

76 

VI^ 

"E  Chain  (    ng   . 

85 

VIII 

"^EART            BeNICIA 

98 

IX 

Gold  and  1    arls    . 

.     108 

X 

At  THE  Casa  O'Donoju 

112 

XI 

The  Mark  of  El  Eojo 

129 

XTI 

Desert  Secr±  ts 

145 

XIII 

Crosscurrents         .       .       .       . 

159 

XIV 

Eevelation 

168 

XV 

What  Happened  in  the  Nighi 

:    178 

XVI 

Accusation 

184 

XVII 

The  Ordeal 

195 

XVIII 

The  Desert  Intervenes 

211 

XIX 

Thirst 

219 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

XX 

The  Coming  of  El  Doctoe 

PAGl 

.     232 

XXT 

Treasure  Quest     . 

.       .     247 

XXTT 

At.tar  Takes  its  ToUi 

.       .     257 

7(XIII 

Into  the  Furnace 

.     q'66 

XXT\^ 

Storm 

.    279 

7<xy 

Treasure  Trove     .       .     ,  . 

.    293 

[vi] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 


PROLOGUE 

ROADS  of  men  thread  the  world./.  They 
thunder  with  a  life  flood.  They  are  vi- 
brant with  a  pulse  of  affairs.  By  land  and 
water  and  air  they  link  to-day  to  to-morrow. 
But  El  Camino  de  los  Muertos  (the  Road  of 
the  Dead  Men)  is  a  dim  highway  leading  no- 
where but  back  and  back  to  forgotten  yester- 
days. Its  faint  sign-posts  once  wera  vivid  in 
lettering  of  tears  and  blood.  Its  stages  were 
measured  by  the  sum  of  all  human  hardihood. 
Faith,  valour,  reckless  adventuring,  thirst  for 
gold,  love  o'  women — ^these  the  links  in  the 
measuring  chain  that  marked  its  course  through 
a  dead  land.  And  black  crosses  formed  of  lava 
stones  laid  down  in  the  sand;  these  abide  over 
all  the  length  of  the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men  from 
Caborca  to  Yuma  to  cry  to  the  white-hot  sky 
of  slain  hopes  and  faith  betrayed  in  those 
buried  years  gone. 
The  priest-adventurers  of  New  Spain  first 
[1] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

blazed  this  trail  through  an  unknown  wilder- 
ness. Restless  pioneers  of  the  Society  of  Jesus 
and  the  Order  of  St.  Francis,  men  with  the  zeal 
to  dare,  pushed  out  from  the  northernmost 
limits  of  the  Spanish  settlements  in  a  new 
world  with  their  soldier  guards  and  their  Indian 
guides.  They  fought  death  in  a  land  of  thirst 
northward,  ever  northward.  The  cross  fell 
from  the  hands  of  spent  zealots  at  some  water- 
hole  where  water  was  not,  and  other  hands  fol- 
lowed to  snatch  up  the  sacred  emblem  and  push 
it  deeper  into  Papagueria.  North  and  west 
through  El  Infiernillo  to  the  red  waters  of  the 
Colorado  where  the  Yumas  had  their  reed  huts. 
Thence  on  to  the  west  through  a  land  that  stank 
of  death  until  at  last  the  end  of  the  trail  was 
smothered  in  the  soft  green  of  Califomian 
valleys — good  ground  for  the  seed  of  Faith. 

The  overland  trail  of  the  padres  became  the 
single  trail  from  Mexico  to  gold  when  the  mad- 
ness of  '49  called  to  all  peoples.  Then  the  Road 
of  the  Dead  Men  took  its  toll  by  the  score  and 
doublescore.  Then  men  fought  for  precious 
water  at  Tinajas  Altas;  many  crosses  of 
malapais  mark  the  sands  there.  Bandits  lurked 
at  Tule  "Wells,  ninety  miles  over  blistering 
desert  from  the  nearest  water,  to  shoot  men  for 
the  gold  they  were  bringing  back  from  Cali- 

[2] 


PROLOGUE 

fornia.  The  Pock-Marked  Woman,  mad  with 
thirst — so  runs  the  legend — walked  at  nights 
with  the  Virgin  in  the  flats  beyond  Pitiquito 
and  found  water  with  celestial  candles  burning 
all  about  the  pool. 

So  passed  the  wraiths  of  the  gold  madness. 
A  railroad  was  laid  down  from  the  Pacific  east- 
ward across  the  desert.  "What  once  was  called 
Papagueria  had  come  to  be  known  as  Sonora, 
in  Mexico,  and  Arizona  in  the  Republic  of  the 
North.  The  Road  of  the  Dead  Men  at  its  Cali- 
fornia end  became  a  way  through  green  and 
watered  valleys  where  bungalows  mushroom 
overnight;  along  its  course  in  southwestern 
Arizona  and  northern  Sonora  it  lapsed  to  a 
faint  trail  from  waterhole  to  waterhole  of  a 
heat  scourged  desert.  To-day  this  forgotten 
remnant  of  a  high  road  of  adventure  and  hot 
romance  exists  a  streak  in  an  incandescent 
inferno  of  sand  and  lava  slag,  wherein  death 
is  the  omnipresent  fact.  Occasionally  a  pros- 
pector putters  along  its  dreary  stretches,  chip- 
ping at  ledge  and  rimrock.  A  Papago  or  a 
Cocopa  creeps  over  caliche-stained  flats  with 
baskets  of  salt  from  the  Pinacate  marshes  near 
the  Gulf. 

That  is  all.  The  Dead  Men  hold  their  road 
inviolable.    It  is  dust  of  the  desert. 

[3] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

That  is  all,  did  I  say?  No,  the  spirit  of 
romance  and  the  shape  of  illusion  have  not 
completely  passed  from  El  Camino  de  los 
Muertos.  Remains  that  tale  which  carries  itself 
over  a  span  of  a  century  and  a  half,  linking 
lives  of  the  present  to  lives  of  men  and  women 
whose  very  graves  long  since  have  passed  from 
sight  of  folk.  A  tale  strangely  like  the  desert 
trail  along  whose  course  its  episodes  of  hot 
passion  and  swift  action  befell;  for  its  begin- 
nings are  laid  in  a  mirage  of  an  elder  day 
which  we  of  the  present  can  see  but  dimly,  and 
its  ending  is  beyond  the  horizon  of  to-day. 
Would  you  know  the  full  story  of  the  Lost 
Mission  de  los  Cuatros  Evangelistas :  how  the 
baleful  spell  of  its  green  pearls  of  the  Virgin 
worked  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  House  of 
O'Donoju  and  how  the  last  of  that  house 
wrought  expiation  for  the  sin  of  a  forbear 
through  heroism  and  the  fire  of  a  great  love — 
would  you  know  the  full  story,  I  say,  you  must 
see  with  me  the  substance  of  a  beginning. 

No  more  can  one  plump  into  the  middle  of 
this  the  last  of  the  romance  tales  of  the  Road 
of  the  Dead  Men  than  could  one  drop  onto  the 
Road  itself  midway  of  its  length. 

A  King  in  Spain  once  followed  a  practice  of 
[4] 


PROLOGUE 

careless  munificence.  Whenever  one  of  his 
generals  in  the  great  wars  appeared  worthy  of 
reward  His  Majesty  used  to  ink  the  ball  of  his 
thumb  and  with  a  grand  and  free  gesture  he 
would  make  a  print  somewhere  on  the  map  of 
Mexico,  then  called  New  Spain.  Then  the 
lucky  general,  taking  this  patent  of  royal  favor 
across  the  seas  with  him,  would  hire  surveyors 
to  translate  the  print  of  Philip's  thumb  into 
terms  of  square  miles  of  domain.  These  square 
miles  were  his  and  his  heirs'  to  govern  like 
little  kings,  with  justice  in  their  hands,  the 
Church  to  give  them  countenance  and  Indians 
by  the  hundreds  to  serve  them  under  a  modi- 
fied code  of  slavery.  No  man  has  lived  since 
as  did  those  magnificent  possessors  of  Philip's 
thumbprints. 

The  Rancho  del  Refugio  in  the  little  known 
reaches  of  Papagueria  was  one  of  these  fiefs 
of  the  king.  Michael  O'Donohue,  a  wild  man 
of  the  red  Irish  who  had  fought  English  kings 
and  queens  under  the  banner  of  Spain,  had 
come  by  the  grant  originally  and  had  taken  a 
lady  of  Granada  to  the  new  world  to  bear  him 
heirs  worthy  of  their  inheritance.  Michael 
O'Donohue  became  Don  Miguel  O'Donoju,  lord 
of  a  desert  principality  and  a  power  at  the 
Viceroy's  court  in  the   City  of  Mexico.     He 

[5] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

established  two  rigid  precedents  to  be  followed 
by  the  house  of  O^Donoju:  pride  of  race  and 
jealous  conservation  of  the  family  principality. 
It  became  a  rule  of  the  O'Donoju  that  none  of 
the  clan  marry  outside  the  pure  Castilian  blood 
— Irish  excepted  if  Irish  could  be  found;  and 
a  rule  that,  come  what  might,  no  O'Donoju 
pass  title  to  so  much  as  a  foot  of  the  Rancho 
del  Refugio. 

It  was  a  day  in  April,  the  year  178Q,  that 
the  clan  O'Donoju  came  to  the  Mission  of  the 
Four  Evangelists  to  lend  the  dignity  of  their 
presence  to  the  solemn  service  of  re-dedication. 
More  than  that,  Don  Padraic  O'Donoju,  vener- 
able head  of  the  house  and  master  of  the  Casa 
O'Donoju  in  the  oasis  named  the  Garden  of 
Solitude,  was  come  to  witness  a  personal 
triumph.  For  it  had  been  his  money  that  had 
gone  to  the  Franciscan  College  to  be  used  in 
the  rebuilding  of  the  frontier  post  of  God  after 
the  Apaches  had  raided  and  burned  it  fifty 
years  before.  And  one  of  his  own  sons,  Padre 
Felice,  had  been  the  architect  and  builder  of 
the  restored  mission  and  was  to  continue  the 
priest  in  charge.  Padre  Felice  was  fourth  in 
a  line  of  O'Donojus  to  take  orders,  one  from 
each  generation  since  the  establishment  of  the 
grant. 

[6] 


PEOLOGUE 

The  O'Donojus — grandchildren,  cousins  and 
kin  by  marriage — had  ridden  five  days  and  up- 
wards from  various  sections  of  the  Eancho  del 
Eefugio,  up  and  out  through  the  Altar  desert 
to  this  remote  sanctuary  of  God  in  the  country 
of  the  Sand  People.  They  came  by  the  way 
called  the  Eoad  of  the  Dead  Men.  Its  asperi- 
ties were  softened  by  the  quick  desert  spring 
which  tipped  each  thorny  cactus  cone  with 
candelabra  tufts  of  golden  and  carmine  flowers. 
The  desert  ^s  usual  heat  was  tempered  by  the 
snows  that  lay  in  unnamed  mountains  to  the 
north. 

They  came  in  a  lengthy  caravan  of  horses 
and  burros,  with  half  naked  Indians  to  herd 
the  goats  and  the  yearling  steers  that  were  to 
be  barbecued  for  the  secular  feast  to  follow  the 
religious  rites;  with  a  half -company  of  foot 
soldiers  from  the  Presidio  del  Eefugio  to  guard 
the  company  against  roving  Apaches;  Indian 
maids  on  mule  back  to  serve  the  needs  of  their 
mistresses,  regally  mounted  on  ponies  of  the 
Cortez  strain;  baggage  porters,  cooks,  rousta- 
bouts. Fully  a  hundred  of  the  clan  O'Donoju 
and  satellites  on  pilgrimage  over  the  Eoad  of 
the  Dead  Men. 

All  of  the  0  'Donoju  were  there  but  one,  El 
Eojo— the  Eed  One.    The  ^'Eed  One''  was  he 

[7] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

because  of  the  throw-back  to  the  red  Irish 
strain  of  his  fighting  ancestor  Don  Miguel. 
Red  with  the  pugnacious  red  of  Donegal  was 
his  hair;  his  cheeks  had  none  of  the  sallow  tan 
of  the  Spanish  but  were  dyed  with  the  stain  of 
Irish  bog  winds;  his  eyes  were  blue  lamps  of 
the  devil.  A  fatherless  grandson  of  old  Don 
Padraic,  El  Rojo  had  played  the  wild  youth  in 
the  City  of  Mexico  with  only  occasional  visits 
of  penance  to  the  Casa  O'Donoju  in  the  desert 
country  of  the  north  until,  when  the  tang  of 
youth  still  was  his,  he  had  tainted  his  name  with 
scandal.  Followed  his  formal  expulsion  from 
the  clan  at  the  hands  of  the  old  aristocrat,  his 
grandfather,  and  the  closing  of  all  doors  of  his 
kindred  in  Papagueria  against  him.  El  Rojo 
had  ridden  out  to  the  wide  world  of  sand  and 
mountains  an  outcast  but  with  a  laugh  on  his 
lips;  this  a  full  year  before  the  gathering  of 
the  family  at  the  Mission  of  the  Four  Evan- 
gelists. 

When  El  Rojo  had  turned  lone  wolf,  a  sad- 
ness that  was  not  the  sadness  of  shame  settled 
upon  the  heart  of  one  of  the  0  'Dono ju.  Frecia 
Mayortorena,  a  cousin,  one  of  the  flowers  of 
girlhood  that  caused  old  Hermosillo  to  be 
named  the  Little  Garden,  sat  behind  her  barred 
windows  on  many  a  night  with  heart  wild  to 

[8] 


PROLOGUE 

hear  once  more  the  love  song  only  El  Rojo 
knew  how  to  sing.  Frecia  Mayortorena,  all  fire 
under  the  cold  ice  of  her  schooled  and  decorous 
features,  knew  that  the  reckless  devil  with  the 
flame-blue  eyes  had  but  to  come  and  strum  a 
love  call  on  his  guitar;  she  would  go  with  him 
into  banishment  and  worse.  So  on  this  pil- 
grimage to  the  shrine  of  the  four  holy  men  the 
girl,  who  rode  with  her  father  and  brothers, 
allowed  her  imagination  to  frame  the  figure  of 
a  phantom  horseman  on  every  ragged  mountain 
top.  At  each  camp  fire  along  the  Road  of  the 
Dead  Men,  when  the  vast  sea  of  desert  round 
about  was  stilled  under  the  stars,  Frecia 
Mayortorena  sat  with  tiny  pointed  chin  cupped 
in  a  propping  palm  and  seemed  to  hear  in  the 
clink  of  a  mule's  hobble  chain  the  opening 
chord  of  that  song  of  songs, 

Red  as  the  pomegranate  flower,  my  love, 
The  heart  of  him  who  sings. 

The  cavalcade  came  to  the  mission  with  the 
firing  of  guns  and  with  shouts.  The  reed-and- 
mud  huts  of  the  Sand  People  beyond  the 
cloisters  disgorged  their  shouting  savages  to 
welcome  the  travellers.  Padre  Felice,  a  gaunt 
man  with  the  face  of  an  ascetic  above  the  folds 
of  his  rough  brown  cowl,  hurried  out  from  the 

[9] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

doors  of  the  new  sanctuary  to  meet  and  give 
embrace  to  his  father,  Don  Padraic,  and  then 
in  turn  to  all  his  next  of  kin;  behind  him  fol- 
lowed his  two  novitiate  priests  who  were,  with 
Padre  Felice,  the  only  white  men  in  all  the 
stretch  of  Papagueria  from  the  Rancho  del 
Eefugio  westward  to  the  Sea  of  Cortez.  Five 
days '  travel  were  they  from  the  nearest  of  their 
kind,  and  to  west  and  north  stretched  un- 
guessed  leagues  of  the  desert.  Only  the  Road 
of  the  Dead  Men  linked  them  with  the  first  of 
the  Calif ornian  missions  thirty  days  over  the 
western  horizon. 

Missionary  to  the  Sand  People  was  Padre 
Felice — to  that  branch  of  the  Papago  tribe  of 
tractable  Indians  who  lived  about  the  east 
shore  of  the  Sea  of  Cortez  and  on  eastward 
throughout  the  desert  of  Altar.  The  rebuilt 
mission  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  small  oasis 
which  was  fed  by  a  stream  down  out  of  the 
burnt  mountains  not  a  mile  behind ;  one  of  those 
rare  and  furtive  desert  trickles  of  water  which 
hides  in  the  sand  most  months  of  the  year. 
The  diminutive  mission  building,  with  its 
rounded  dome  of  sun-burned  brick,  lifted  in 
sharp  outlines  above  the  vivid  and  water-fed 
greenery  of  the  oasis  mesquite  and  polo  verde; 
but  the  whole — oasis  and  house  of  God — ^was 

[10] 


PROLOGUE 

dwarfed  by  the  bleak  immensity  of  the  flanking 
mountains  leaping  sheer  from  the  plain  to  push 
their  fire-scarred  summits  against  the  sky. 

Before  the  choir  of  Indian  voices  intoned  the 
opening  prayer  of  the  dedication  service  the 
packs  of  the  0  'Dono ju  caravan  yielded  precious 
things.  There  was  a  monstrance  of  heavy  gold 
studded  at  its  tips  with  precious  gems;  this 
was  the  personal  offering  of  old  Don  Padraic 
to  the  shrine  of  the  Four  Evangelists.  A 
chalice  of  gold,  a  great  altar  crucifix  of  gold 
inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl,  a  pair  of  cande- 
labra wrought  of  chased  silver  and  a  com- 
munion service  of  the  same  metal  represented 
the  pious  contributions  of  the  rest  of  the  clan 
O'Donoju. 

But  most  precious  of  all  the  altar  treasures 
was  that  double  string  of  the  pearls  of  the 
Virgin  which  by  a  miracle  had  been  saved  from 
plunder  of  the  Apaches  when  the  savages  from 
the  north  had  come  burning  and  murdering 
fifty  years  before.  For  a  half-century  the 
lucent  rope  of  moonbeam  green  had  lain  in  the 
treasure  vaults  of  the  Franciscan  College  in  the 
City  of  Mexico  awaiting  this  hour  of  restora- 
tion. Green  pearls  fetched  from  the  shell 
beads  of  the  Sea  of  Cortez  by  Indian  converts. 
Pearls  hinting  of  caves  of  ocean  by  their  shim- 
[11] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

mering,  changeful  lustre.  Pearls  to  fire  the 
lust  of  covetousness  even  from  their  hallowed 
place  about  the  throat  of  the  Virgin. 

Padre  Felice  held  the  glinting  rope  of  lights 
high  in  dedication,  and  as  reverently  he  draped 
them  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sacred  effigy  the 
clan  O^Donoju  and  all  the  dark-skinned  chil- 
dren of  the  mission  sang  a  gloria. 

An  untoward  incident  jarred  the  merriment 
of  the  feasting  that  followed  the  re-dedication 
of  the  mission.  When  whole  beeves  were  being 
lifted  from  the  roasting  pits  and  the  skins  of 
wine  and  tequila  were  passing  from  table  to 
table  beneath  the  flowering  mesquite  trees  a 
column  of  dust  strode  across  the  desert  from 
the  east  and  spawned  two  horsemen  upon  the 
oasis.  One,  a  naked  Indian  of  the  stature  of  a 
giant,  reined  in  his  horse  at  the  far  fringe  of 
the  mesquite  as  befitting  a  servant.  The  sec- 
ond rode  boldly  into  the  circle  of  the  tables. 
Silver  clinked  from  bridle  and  stirrup  leathers 
of  his  magnificent  white  thoroughbred.  The 
rider's  silver-trimmed  hat  came  off  with  a 
sweeping  bow  to  include  all  there,  and  the  red 
of  his  hair  was  like  molten  copper  in  the  sun. 

**E1  Eojo!"  was  the  startled  cry  on  every 
lip.    Men  scrambled  to  their  feet  as  if  to  com- 
bat some  overt  move  of  an  eilemy. 
[12] 


PROLOGUE 

**God  be  with  you  all/'  came  the  Red  One's 
speech  of  polite  greeting,  made  all  the  more 
ironical  by  the  reckless  upturn  of  his  lips  in  a 
grin  and  the  steely  lights  that  flashed  from  his 
blue  eyes. 

^^ — And  God,  or  his  gentle  vicar,  Padre 
Felice,  give  me  place  at  table  with  my  noble 
kin,"  El  Rojo  added  lightly.  **I  have  travelled 
far  to  have  my  cup  here  on  this  day  of  cele- 
bration." 

The  laughing  horseman  let  his  eyes  dance 
over  the  circle  of  faces  until  they  came  to  rest 
for  just  an  instant  upon  one.  He  saw  cheeks 
flaming,  eyes  filled  with  wonder  and  full  lips 
parted  to  give  a  heart  its  song.  Frecia 
Mayortorena  was  seeing  a  vision  in  the  life. 
Quickly  El  Rojo's  glance  leaped  on  as  if  to 
shield  the  girl  from  contamination.  The  ven- 
erable Don  Padraic,  head  of  the  clan  O'Donoju, 
was  on  his  feet  now  and  trembling. 

^*We  know  you  not,  sir!  We  must  ask  you 
to  begone!" 

El  Rojo  caused  his  horse  to  rear  perilously. 
Before  hoofs  touched  the  ground  hardly  two 
paces  from  the  old  man  the  rider  again  had 
made  his  full-armed  bow.  He  spoke  with  mock 
respect. 

* '  Sanctuary,  my  grandsire !  I  and  my  servant 
,       [13] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

claim  sanctuary  of  Holy  Church.  We  have  rid- 
den far,  and  good  Uncle  Felice  can  not  deny  us 
the  charity  of  his  order/* 

Don  Padraic  was  being  swiftly  mastered  by 
his  rage  when  the  friar  to  whom  the  unwel- 
come horseman  had  appealed  pushed  his  way 
to  the  side  of  the  older  man. 

**He  speaks  the  truth,  sire,''  urged  the  man 
in  the  brown  habit.  **Here  on  God's  ground 
we  can  not  be  guilty  of  uncharity."  Then,  look- 
ing up  into  the  laughing  blue  eyes  of  his  nephew, 
**I  ask  you  to  descend,  sir,  and  refresh  your- 
self and  your  servant  until  such  time  as  you 
take  the  road." 

So  all  merriment  in  the  oasis  of  the  Four 
Evangelists  was  stilled.  There  in  the  single 
green  spot  on  all  the  leagues  of  the  Eoad  of 
the  Dead  Men  was  wrought  a  comedy ;  a  prelude 
it  was  to  swift  tragedy.  The  clan  O'Donoju, 
its  satellites  and  retainers  ate  and  drank  in 
silence,  and  apart  from  this  company  sat  El 
Rojo  and  his  naked  copper  giant  alone.  From 
time  to  time  El  Rojo  lifted  his  cup  as  if  in  cere- 
monious health  to  his  kin.  Only  Frecia  Mayor- 
torena  read  the  glint  in  the  blue  eyes  which  told 
that  the  toast  was  to  her — and  to  what  would 
eventuate. 

Near  sundown  El  Rojo  and  his  Indian  rode 
[14] 


PEOLOGUE 

off  to  the  west,  but  not  until  tlie  outlaw  had 
spent  a  few  minutes  alone  in  the  mission. 
Padre  Felice  saw  him  at  prayer  before  the  altar 
of  the  Virgin  and  was  deeply  touched  that  the 
spirit  of  religion  had  not  altogether  departed 
from  the  family's  scapegrace. 

In  the  dark  of  midnight  Frecia  Mayortorena, 
who  had  cried  herself  to  sleep,  was  awakened 
by  the  touch  of  a  hand  stretched  under  the  side 
of  the  tent  where  she  slept  with  the  women  of 
the  party.  A  silver  embroidered  hat  was 
slipped  under  the  tent  to  rest  on  her  arm.  The 
girl  dressed  herself  in  a  folly  of  love  and  ter- 
ror and  stole  outside.  The  waiting  figure  of 
El  Eojo's  giant  Indian  detached  itself  from 
the  shadow  of  the  mesquite,  motioning  her  to 
a  tethered  horse.  Blind  infatuation  for  a  hero 
lover  brooked  no  questioning  on  the  girl's  part. 
She  mounted  and  followed  her  guide  through 
the  alleys  of  heavy  shade. 

A  single  dreadful  cry  sounded  from  out  the 
opened  door  of  the  mission.  A  minute  later 
a  vague  horseman  spurred  to  her  side  and 
stopped  the  beating  of  her  heart  with  flaming 
kisses.  The  silent  desert  swallowed  three  phan- 
tom shapes  on  horseback. 

Dawn  brought  revelation  and  the  beginning 
of  that  cycle  of  tragedy  and  dreadful  pursuit 
.         [15] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

of  Nemesis  which  was  to  overwhelm  the  clan 
O^Donoju.  Padre  Felice  murdered  at  the  altar 
of  the  Virgin,  where  he  had  tried  to  stay  the 
hand  of  impiety.  The  green  pearls  of  the  Vir- 
gin gone.  A  daughter  of  the  house  of  O'Donoju 
flown  with  a  thief  and  a  murderer. 

One  word  more  and  this  mirage  of  years 
long  dead  fades.  The  curse  that  all  Papagueria 
saw  descend  on  the  clan  O'Donoju  spared  not 
even  the  sanctuary  of  the  Four  Evangelists.  A 
year  to  the  night  of  the  Virgin's  despoliation 
the  Apaches  came  again  to  this  frontier  post 
of  the  Church,  and  after  a  spiteful  siege  they 
slew  the  white  priests,  burned  the  mission  and 
carried  the  Indian  converts  over  the  mountains 
into  slavery.  The  Franciscans  dared  not  re- 
build on  such  accursed  ground.  Winds  of  the 
desert,  which  move  sand  mountains  in  their 
eternal  sweep,  played  upon  the  ruined  mission 
year  on  year  to  blot  even  a  vestige  of  it  from 
the  eyes  of  man.  God's  hand — so  the  Indians 
had  it — shook  the  mountains  behind  the  little 
oasis  so  that  the  source  of  the  tiny  life-giving 
stream  was  blocked.  The  green  vanished  like 
a  mist,  and  scabrous  desert  cacti  crept  in  on 
prickly  feet. 

The  Mission  de  los  Cuatros  Evangelistas  be- 
came legend. 

[16] 


CHAPTER  I 

WHAT  HAPPENED  ON  THE  LIMITED 

npHE  Golden  Sunset  Limited,  Pacific  Coast 
-■■  bound,  snaked  its  way  through  a  cleft 
in  mountains  and  came  sighing  to  a  stop 
at  the  man's  town,  El  Paso.  A  patchwork 
crowd  spilled  out  from  the  station  platform  to 
push  around  the  ladders  of  the  car  icers  to  the 
train  steps.  Swarthy  Mexicans  under  som- 
breros, with  their  black-shawled  women  and 
their  little  tin  trunks,  scrambled  and  clogged 
at  the  approaches  to  the  oven-like  day  coaches 
forward.  Pullman  passengers  sauntered  over 
frogs  and  switches  to  plush  and  rosewood  at 
the  train's  end. 

Among  these  was  Grant  Hickman,  civil  en- 
gineer, New  York,  lately  captain  in  the  First 
Division  overseas.  Arizona  bound  and  west  of 
the  Ohio  River  for  the  first  time  in  his  thirty 
years,  Hickman  had  broken  his  journey  by  a 
day's  stopover  in  El  Paso.  He  had  given  Jua- 
rez a  whirl,  decided  the  kind  of  life  he  saw 
across  the  International  Bridge  was  spurious 
-,        [17] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

and  of  little  worth,  and  now  was  entraining 
again  for  Ms  destination  some  four  hundred 
miles  to  the  westward.  He  gave  the  porter  his 
bags  to  stow  for  him  according  to  the  directions 
scribbled  on  his  Pullman  ticket  and  began  a 
lazy  pacing  of  the  platform,  his  eye  alert  for 
the  colour  and  the  bustle  of  it  all.  The  blending 
of  two  races,  of  widely  differing  civilizations, 
here  in  this  sturdy  city  gave  Hickman's  rest- 
less imagination  a  smart  fillip.  He  saw  men 
with  gaily  coloured  blankets  worn  as  cloaks 
over  their  shoulders  like  prayer  shawls  in  a 
synagogue;  Indians  with  ornaments  of  beaten 
silver  and  raw  turquoise  hasps  on  their  belts 
had  their  shoulders  planted  against  solid  brick 
walls  with  a  grace  born  only  of  perfect  indo- 
lence. All  great  stuff — regular  musical  show 
background. 

On  his  first  lap  down  the  platform  the  New 
York  man's  eyes  rested  momentarily  on  two 
figures  standing  in  the  drip  of  one  of  the  car 
icers'  laden  pushcarts.  A  girl  and  a  man;  she 
hatless  as  she  had  left  the  car  for  a  stroll,  the 
man  all  gesticulating  hands  and  eloquently 
moving  shoulders.  Hickman  caught  a  scrap  of 
the  man's  fervid  speech  as  he  strolled  past;  it 
was  in  a  foreign  tongue,  liquid — almost  lisp- 
ing— with  its  softly  rolled  r's  and  a  peculiar 

[18] 


WHAT  HAPPENED  ON  THE  LIMITED 

singing  intonation  at  the  upward  lift  of  each 
period.  Spanish  undoubtedly.  Just  an  over- 
shoulder  glimpse  of  a  thin,  dark  face  in  sharp 
profile  confirmed  Grant  in  his  guess  at  the 
speaker's  nationality.  The  girPs  bared  head  at- 
tracted his  appreciative  eye;  it  bore  a  glory 
of  wondrously  burning  red  hair,  coiled  in  great 
masses,  vividly  alive. 

Grant  turned  his  corner  at  the  platform's  end 
and  began  to  retrace  his  steps,  consciously  bear- 
ing in  the  direction  of  the  beacon  hair.  When 
he  was  still  twenty  paces  off  he  saw  that  the 
swarthy  man  had  gripped  one  of  the  girl's 
wrists  and  that  his  hawk  face  was  pushed  close 
to  hers  in  what  might  have  been  an  access  of 
fury  or  of  pleading.  Grant  quickened  his  pace 
instinctively;  he  did  not  like  the  looks  of  that 
man's  talon  grip  on  a  girl's  wrist.  He  paused 
a  decent  distance  from  the  twain  and  made  a 
pretence  of  lighting  a  cigarette  while  his  eyes 
glanced  steadily  over  his  cupped  palms. 

Then  a  surprising  thing.  The  girl  launched 
some  verbal  javelin  at  the  man  who  gripped 
her  wrist,  at  the  same  instant  looking  down  at 
the  clamping  fingers  as  if  to  emphasize  what 
must  have  been  a  command  to  release  her.  No 
answer  but  a  flash  of  white  teeth  beneath  a  toy 
moustache.  The  girl's  free  hand  shot  to  a  great 
[19] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

coil  of  hair  over  the  nape  of  her  neck,  came 
away  with  twin  prongs  of  thin  steel — anchorage 
of  some  hair  ornament — showing  below  her 
clenched  fingers.  A  lightning  jab  downward, 
and  the  Spanish-speaking  man  dropped  the  im- 
prisoned hand  to  whip  his  own  to  his  month. 
He  snarled  something  in  sharp  falsetto.  The 
girl  with  the  red  hair  tilted  her  chin  at  him, 
and  the  laugh  that  slipped  between  her 
grudging  little  teeth  was  thin  and  sharp  as 
the  double  dagger  points  she  had  used. 

She  turned,  took  three  steps  to  a  stool  below 
the  Pullman's  steps,  mounted  with  a  quick 
swirl  of  skirts  and  was  gone.  Grant  thought 
he  saw  a  half-formed  determination  to  follow 
flash  into  the  Spaniard's  eyes.  Without  know- 
ing why  he  did  it,  the  New  Yorker  hastily  put 
one  foot  upon  the  lower  Pullman  step  and  bent 
his  body  so  as  to  block  access  to  it.  Very  pains- 
takingly he  unloosed  the  knot  on  his  low  shoe, 
straightened  the  tongue  in  place  and  began  tak- 
ing in  slack  on  every  loop  of  the  strings. 

A  grunt  of  exasperation  from  behind  Grant. 
"When  at  last  he  straightened  himself  and 
looked  around  the  Spanish  gentleman  was  gone. 
He  chuckled. 

**Now  that,  senor,  should  teach  you  not  to 
play  rough  with  a  red-head.'' 

[20] 


WHAT  HAPPENED  ON  THE  LIMITED 

He  walked  down  to  tlie  Pullman  his  ticket 
called  for  and  climbed  aboard.  Just  as  the 
conductor's  bellow,  *^Bo-oa-rd,"  sounded,  Grant, 
looking  through  the  glass  of  the  vestibule,  saw 
the  Spanish  gentleman  with  a  grip  flying  for 
the  train  out  of  the  baggage  room  of  the  sta- 
tion. 

Passing  into  the  body  of  the  car  he  found  his 
bags  piled  upon  a  seat  midway  of  its  length. 
As  he  seated  himself  he  was  the  least  bit  star- 
tled to  see  flaming  coils  of  hair  above  the  top 
of  the  seat  across  the  aisle  and  one  beyond  his. 
Grant  was  not  displeased.  Girls  with  spirit 
always  walked  straight  into  his  somewhat  sus- 
ceptible affections;  and  a  girl  who  carried  a 
home-made  fish  spear  in  her  coiffure — 

**  'Sense  me,  Cap'n;  ef  I  could  jes'  have  a 
look  at  youah  berth  ticket.  This  gentmum  says 
he  reckons  you-alPs  settin'  in  his  seat."  Grant 
looked  up  to  see  the  porter  shifting  uneasily 
before  him  and  with  a  deprecatory  grin  on  his 
face.  By  him  stood  the  waspish  Spanish  gentle- 
man; the  latter  inclined  himself  in  a  stiff  bow 
as  Grant's  gaze  met  his.  Out  of  the  tail  of 
his  eye  Grant  thought  he  saw  a  slow  turning 
of  the  sunset  cloud  against  the  high  seat-back 
ahead. 

**This  is  my  section,"  Grant  drawled  with 
[21] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

no  show  of  inclination  to  arbitrate  the  matter. 
*^I  always  buy  a  section  when  I  travel/' 

**But,  pardon,  sir — ''  The  Spanish  gentle- 
man extended  a  pink  slip.  *'The  agent  at  the 
station  has  but  now  sold  me  this  lower  berth.'' 

** Indeed!"  A  slow  ache  of  perversity  began 
to  travel  along  Grant's  spine.  He  had  no  love 
for  a  man  who  will  manhandle  women.  **  In- 
deed, The  agent  at  El  Paso  sold  me  mine  yes- 
terday. ' ' 

**Ef  I  could  see  youah  ticket,"  the  porter  be- 
gan feebly. 

**You  couldn't,"  Grant  snapped.  '* Perhaps 
the  Pullman  conductor  may." 

A  cloud  began  gathering  over  the  finely  chis- 
elled features  of  the  Spaniard.  His  toy  mous- 
tache went  up.    He  spoke  to  the  porter: 

'*The  senor  is  not  what  we  call  sympatico. 
Have  the  kindness  to  fetch  the  conductor." 

The  darkey  disappeared.  Grant  turned  to 
look  out  of  the  window,  ignoring  completely  the 
standing  figure  in  the  aisle.  But  he  did  not  ig- 
nore the  reflection  a  trick  of  the  sun  cast  on  the 
double  glass  of  the  window.  He  saw  there  just 
the  faint  aura  of  a  fiery  head  which  refused 
to  turn,  though  the  compelling  gaze  of  the 
standing  man  strove  mightily  to  command  it. 
Faintly  in  the  magic  of  the  dusty  glass  was 
[22] 


WHAT  HAPPENED  ON  THE  LIMITED 

carried  to  this  bystander,  whose  neutrality  al- 
ready was  considerably  strained,  the  silent  bat- 
tle of  wills. 

The  Pullman  conductor  bustled  up  to  Grant's 
seat.  To  him  the  Spaniard  appealed,  offering 
the  evidence  of  the  berth  check.  Grant  vouch- 
safed no  comment  when  he  passed  his  own  up 
for  inspection.  The  man  in  blue  compared 
them. 

'*Some  ball-up  somewhere,"  he  grunted. 
Then  to  Grant:  '^When  was  this  ticket  sold 
to  youT' 

*' Yesterday  morning  at  ten-fifteen  o'clock," 
came  the  prompt  answer.  The  waspish  Span- 
ish person  admitted  he  had  purchased  his  only 
a  minute  before  the  train  started.  The  con- 
ductor waved  at  Grant. 

^*Then  I  guess  the  seat  belongs  to  this  gen- 
tleman. I'll  have  to  find  you  one  in  another 
car." 

*'But,  senor,  I  have  special  reason  for  re- 
maining in  this  car."  The  Spaniard's  carefully 
restrained  wrath  began  to  bubble  over.  Grant 
looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  frankly. 

' '  So  have  I, "  he  declared  levelly .  The  other 's 
eyes  snapped  and  his  lips  lifted  over  small 
white  teeth  in  what  was  meant  to  be  a  smile. 

** Senor,"  he  began  with  a  shaking  voice, 
.       [23] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

''your  courtesy  deserves  remembrance.  I  hope 
some  day  it  may  be  my  pleasure  to  show  you 
equal  consideration." 

**  Until  then — au  revoir/'  Grant  caught  him 
up.  With  the  porter  preceding  him,  the  loser 
walked  down  the  aisle  to  the  far  door  of  the 
car.  As  he  passed  the  seat  where  the  girl  was 
he  half  turned  with  a  sulky  smile.  But  it  was 
lost.  She  was  looking  out  at  the  procession  of 
the  telegraph  poles.  Grant,  catching  this  final 
passage  in  the  little  comedy,  grinned. 

'^There's  going  to  be  lots  of  paprika  in  this 
Western  hike,"  joyfully  he  assured  himself — 
''or  do  we  call  it  chili!" 


[24] 


CHAPTER  n 

A  GIRL  NAMED  BENICIA 

GRANT  HICKMAN  was  not  one  of  that 
tribe  dignified  by  the  name  of  he-flirts. 
He  abominated  the  whole  slimy  clan  with  the 
loathing  of  a  clean  man.  When  he  had  seized 
upon  the  part  of  studied  rudeness  toward  the 
Spaniard  it  was  not  with  the  ulterior  purpose 
of  winning  a  smile  or  paving  the  way  for  ac- 
quaintance with  a  pretty  woman;  Grant's  vivid 
recollection  of  the  sidewalk  cafes  of  Paris  in 
war  time  and  their  hunting  women  left  him  cold 
toward  the  type  that  is  careless  of  men's  ap- 
proaches. In  flouting  the  foreigner  and  pre- 
venting his  scheme  to  gain  a  place  in  the  car 
with  the  girl  he  had  bullied  on  the  station  plat- 
form the  New  York  man  had  acted  merely  on 
instinct;  he  had  protected  a  girl  from  annoy- 
ance. Yet  now  that  he  had  won  through  by 
dint  of  crass  boorishness — and  the  young  man's 
conscience  gave  him  a  twinge  over  the  substance 
of  his  discourtesy — he  suffered  a  not  unreason- 
able curiosity  regarding  the  possessor  of  that 
glorious  beacon  in  the  seat  across  the  aisle. 
[25] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Who  was  she?  What  circumstances  had  led 
to  that  scene  on  the  platform  which  had  ended 
with  the  unexpected  dagger  thrust  of  the  steel 
hair  ornament?  Was  this  little  black-and-tan 
whipper-snapper  a  lover — a  brother — ^black- 
mailer? Grant's  galloping  imagination  built 
up  flimsy  hypotheses  only  to  rip  them  apart. 
And  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  soft  involutions  of 
flame  coloured  hair,  which  were  the  only  physi- 
cal indices  of  personality  granted  him  thus  far. 

Once  the  object  of  his  conjectures  shifted  her 
seat  so  that  a  profile  peeped  out  from  behind 
the  wide  seat  arm.  Grant's  eyes  hungrily 
conned  delectable  details:  one  broad  wing  of 
hair  sweeping  down  in  a  line  of  studied  care- 
lessness over  a  forehead  somewhat  low  and 
rounded;  fine  line  of  nose  with  the  hint  of  a 
passionate  spirit  in  the  modelling;  mouth  that 
was  all  girlish,  mobile,  ready  to  reflect  whims 
or  laughter.  The  sort  of  mouth,  Grant  reflected, 
that  could  load  a  laugh  with  poison — even  as 
he  had  seen  it  done  that  tense  instant  on  the 
platform  at  El  Paso — or  freight  it  with  sweet- 
ness for  a  favoured  one.  A  world  of  fire  and 
seduction  untried  lay  in  the  full  round  lips, 
yet  a  chin  with  the  thrust  of  will  in  it  warned 
that  the  promise  of  those  lips  was  jealously 
guarded. 

[26] 


A  GIRL  NAMED  BENICIA 

A  broad  sheaf  of  sunlight  lay  across  her 
cheek.  Grant  saw  that  hers  was  not  the  usual 
apple  tint  of  the  red-haired,  the  characteristic 
skin  so  delicate  as  to  suggest  translucence. 
Rather  a  touch  of  the  sun  had  spread  an  im- 
palpable film  of  tan,  warm  as  the  colour  of  old 
ivory,  over  cheek  and  throat.  Duskiness  of  a 
southland  dyed  cheek  and  throat  despite  the 
anomaly  of  the  burning  hair,  quite  Celtic. 

The  afternoon  waned  with  no  favouring  for- 
tune throwing  Grant's  way  opportunity  to  study 
the  girl  closer.  When  the  sunset  was  in  the  sky 
he  walked  through  the  train  to  the  observation 
platform.  As  he  drew  near  the  glassed-in  end 
of  the  observation  car  he  noted  with  a  little 
leap  of  elation  that  the  girl  was  sitting  under 
the  awning  beyond  the  screen  door.  He  saw, 
too,  the  objectionable  Spanish  gentleman.  His 
midget  body  was  packed  into  a  chair,  one  neatly 
booted  foot  under  him;  like  some  hunting  cat 
he  sat  in  watchful  patience  inside  the  body  of 
the  car,  his  eyes  never  leaving  the  figure  of  the 
girl  beyond  the  screen  door. 

Grant  passed  through  to  the  platform,  not 
giving  the  Spaniard  so  much  as  a  glance.  As 
the  door  slammed  behind  him  the  girl  looked  up 
quickly.  Grant  saw  her  eyes  were  blue,  saw, 
too,  a  fighting  gleam  quickly  pass  from  them. 
[27] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Evidently  he  was  not  the  one  they  expected  to 
fall  upon.  A  pretty  confusion  which  tried  to 
deny  recognition  swiftly  replaced  the  strained 
look.  Grant  allowed  himself  to  be  bold  to  the 
extent  of  tip-tilting  his  cap.  The  girl  evidently 
decided  that  to  overlook  a  service  done  would 
be  pushing  decorum  too  far;  she  gave  Grant  a 
quick,  shy  smile  which  might  have  carried  a 
hint  of  gratitude  mingled  with  naive  humour. 

**  You  were  very  kind,"  she  said  as  Grant  took 
the  camp-stool  next  to  her,  '*and  very  amus- 
ing. The  high  hand — ^you  possess  the  art  of 
using  it,  sir." 

**I  should  be  ashamed  of  my  rudeness,"  he 
answered  with  a  quick  smile.  ''But  somehow 
I  am  not.  Your  way  of  repelling  attack  has  its 
advantages,  too — "  His  eyes  strayed  to  the 
silver  comb,  whose  concealed  steel  had  been  so 
efficacious  on  the  El  Paso  platform.  The  girl 
reddened  prettily. 

**  Always  one  must  be — ^prepared  against — 
persuasion,"  was  the  answer  that  put  a  period 
to  all  reference  which  might  be  distasteful. 
Grant  would  have  liked  to  know  more  of  cir- 
cumstances that  had  pushed  this  radiant  young 
person  into  the  grip  of  a  bullying  little  civet 
cat  of  a  Spaniard,  but  he  dared  not  risk  rude- 
ness by  further  questioning.  Reward  enough 
[28] 


A  GIRL  NAMED  BENICIA 

was  his  already;  lie  had  it  in  the  swift  play  of 
laughter  across  delicate  features,  in  the  sweetly 
resonant  quality  of  her  voice,  all  of  a  part  with 
the  engaging  exotic  character  of  the  girl.  For 
American  she  assuredly  was  not,  though  her 
trim  tailoring  was  impeccably  the  mode  of  th 
moment.  Her  speech  had  a  rippling  musical 
lilt  to  it  suggestive  of  a  mother  tongue  less 
harsh  than  Anglo-Saxon;  her  enunciation  was 
too  perfect  to  be  American.  There  was  a  trick 
of  the  eyes,  something  almost  vocal,  which  was 
an  inheritance  from  mothers  whose  speech  is 
sternly  hedged  about  by  conventions  but  who 
find  subtler  ways  of  expression. 

What  could  her  nationality  be?  Assuredly 
not  Irish,  though  eyes  and  hair  were  exactly 
what  Grant  had  seen  in  the  green  island  during 
a  furlough  spent  in  jaunting  cars  and  peaty 
inns.  Mexican?  The  flame  hair  denied  that. 
Here  was  another  mystery  to  be  set  aside  with 
that  of  the  encounter  at  the  station.  With  two 
avenues  of  conversation  closed  Grant  plunged 
blindly  along  one  strictly  innocuous. 

*'We  seem  to  be  getting  rather  deep  into  the 
desert."  He  waved  out  at  a  hundred  mile  vista 
of  sunset  painted  waste,  all  purple  and  hot  gold 
in  the  glory  from  the  west — a  new  picture  for 
the  eastern  man.    The  girl  made  an  unconscious 

[29] 


BUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

movement  of  half -stretched  arms  as  if  to  free 
her  soul  for  wandering  in  limitless  spaces. 

*  *  Yes,  the  desert, ' '  she  breathed.  *  ^  How  won- 
derful !  And  for  me,  returning  to  it  after  two 
years  in  cities — in  cities  where  one  chokes  from 
walls  all  about — you  see  how  the  desert  wel- 
comes with  all  its  glory.''  Grant  looked  at 
her  curiously;  he  saw  a  vision  in  her  eyes. 

*^Then  you  like  this — this  dry  and  barren 
land?  Why,  I  thought  nobody  lived  out  here 
unless  he  had  to.  No  trees,  no  water — "  The 
girPs  wondering  eyes  upon  him  checked  his 
summary  of  the  desert's  shortcomings. 

**You  do  not  know  the  desert  then,"  she  re- 
proved. **You  have  never  seen  the  palo  verde 
tree  when  every  branch  is  heavy  with  gold.  You 
do  not  know  how  the  sahuaro  wreathes  itself 
a  crown  of  blossoms — the  tough  old  sahitaro, 
a  giant  with  flowers  on  his  head  ready  to  play 
with  spring  fairies.  Water!" — a  crescendo 
gust  of  laughter — **  You  think  water  only  comes 
from  a  faucet.  If  you  dug  for  it  with  your  bare 
hands — dug  and  dug  in  hot  sands  while  death 
moved  closer  to  you  each  hour,  then  you  would 
come  to  see  a  real  beauty  in  water." 

**You  know  something  of  the  desert,"  Grant 
conceded. 

'*  Something!  Senor"  —  the  alien  word 
[30] 


A  GIRL  NAMED  BENICIA 

slipped  from  her  in  her  flurry  of  devotion — 
*  *  senor,  my  home  is  there  and  my  father 's  home 
has  been  there  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years.  I  have  been  away  from  it  in  the  slavery 
of  the  cities — two  years  at  music  in  New  Or- 
leans and  Baltimore.  Now  I  return.  To-mor- 
row morning  at  Arizora  big  Quelele,  my  father's 
Indian  servant,  meets  me  to  take  me  a  hundred 
miles — a  hundred  miles  off  the  railroad  and 
away  from  the  nearest  city  to  my  home." 

^*But  Arizora  is  where  I  am  bound/'  Grant 
eagerly  caught  her  up.  ** That's  on  the  Line, 
isn't  it?  A  hundred  miles — why,  then  you  must 
live  in  Mexico."  She  nodded.  His  curiosity 
would  not  down : 

**Then  you  are  Mexican?" 

An  instant  her  blue  eyes  sparkled  resentment. 
Grant  sensed  he  had  made  some  blunder,  though 
he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  guess  how  his 
innocent  question  could  have  offended.  The 
girl,  on  her  part,  quickly  regretted  her  show  of 
displeasure;  one  new  to  the  Southwest  natu- 
rally could  not  know  much  about  its  social  dis- 
tinctions. 

**Not  Mexican,"  she  amended  gently.    **We 

are  Spanish  folk  living  in  Mexico.    We  have 

always  been  Spanish  since  the  time  one  of  my 

ancestors  got  his  grant  from  the  king  of  Spain. 

[31] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Never  Mexican.  That  sonnds  like  silly  boast- 
ing to  yon.  When  you  have  lived  in  this  conn- 
try  for  a  little  while  you  will  understand  why 
we  have  pride  in  our  blood.  Just  as  you  have 
pride,  senor,  in  your  American  blood  when  all 
the  cities  of  your  country  are  choked  with  mon- 
grels." 

Hoping  to  hear  her  name,  Grant  gave  her  his 
own.  She  repeated  it  as  if  to  fix  it  in  memory ; 
then  she  told  him  hers.  Benicia  O'Donoju  it 
is  written,  but  in  her  mouth  the  two  words  had 
a  quality  like  a  muted  violin  note,  too  fugitive 
to  be  imprisoned  in  letters.  She  spoke  the  sur- 
name without  accent  on  any  syllable — "Odo- 
nohoo."  The  man  grasped  at  something  evan- 
escent in  the  sound: 

*^Why,  I'd  pronounce  that  'O'Donohue.'  " 

<<My  great-great-grandfather  did."  Once 
more  Grant's  ears  drank  in  that  velvety  con- 
tralto laughter  which  bubbled  to  her  lips  so 
easily.  **You  would  pronounce  his  first  name 
'Mike,'  and  so  did  he." 

**Then  your  first  name  should  be  Peg  or 
MoUy-o,"  Grant  rallied.  She  shook  her  head 
in  gay  denial. 

* '  Senorita  Peg — ^impossible !  Benicia  is  much 
better.  It  means  *  Blessed'  in  our  tongue. 
'Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,'  Senor  Hickman; 
[32] 


A  GIRL  NAMED  BENICIA 

or  *  Blessed  are  the  meek.'  I  might  be  either 
if  I  could  forget  I  am  an  O'Donoju." 

**Benicia."  Grant  tried  to  copy  the  slurring 
softness  she  gave  to  the  word. — *'B*nishia: 
that  sounds  like  little  bells.    I  like  it." 

*^You  are  gracious,  senor.  I  thought  Ameri- 
cans were  too  busy  with  skyscrapers  and  wheat 
markets  to  learn  the  art  of  paying  compliments 
gracefully.'' 

** Compliments  are  bom,  not  paid,"  he  joked. 
Conversation  limped  no  longer.  Youth  has  a 
way  of  opening  little  windows  in  the  souls  of 
two  brought  together  under  its  wizardry  and 
giving  each  elusive  peeps  into  secret  chambers. 
It  was  Benicia  who  first  became  conscious  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  the  strain  on  strict 
canons  of  propriety  her  presence  alone  with 
a  stranger  on  the  observation  platform  had  en- 
tailed.   She  arose  with  a  little  laugh. 

*^My  guardian" — a  roguish  glance  toward  the 
tiny  figure  of  the  Spaniard  still  on  the  watch 
beyond  the  platform's  glass — **I  fear  he  does 
not  approve.  And  so — adiosJ'  She  gave  Grant 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  and  was  gone. 

He  watched  her  pass  where  the  sentinel  was 

sitting.    The  little  man  uncurled  himself  from 

his  hump-shouldered  crouch  and  scrambled  to 

his  feet  as  if  he  would  speak  to  her.    But  Beni- 

[33] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

cia,  bowing  sweetly,  passed  on  up  the  aisle  and 
into  the  alley  of  rosewood  and  glass  beyond. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation  the  Spaniard  came 
to  the  screen  door  giving  onto  the  platform, 
where  Grant  now  stood  alone,  and  opened  it. 
He  scratched  a  match  and  put  it  to  his  cigarette. 
Grant  saw  the  flare  illumine  a  cruel  hawk's 
nose  and  thin,  saturnine  lips.  The  Spaniard 
inhaled  deeply,  then  let  thin  streams  of  smoke 
seep  from  his  nostrils. 

**Senor" — his  voice  was  cold  as  a  lizard's 
foot — **  perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  Senorita 
O'Donoju  is  travelling  under  my  protection.'^ 

Grant  took  time  to  tap  a  cigarette  on  the  heel 
of  his  palm  and  light  it  before  he  answered. 
His  eyes  were  brimming  with  laughter. 

** Perhaps  not,"  he  said.  **I  congratulate 
the  lady  on  her  protector."  Again  blue  smoke 
played  over  the  toy  moustache ;  little  eyes  were 
snapping  like  a  badger's. 

*'I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you,  senor,  that 
your  attentions  to  the  lady  do  her  no  credit 
and  that  they  must  cease." 

**Eeally!"  Grant's  settled  good  humour  re- 
ceived a  jar.  He  felt  a  tingling  of  fighting 
nerves  down  his  back.  ** Really?  And  who 
constituted  you  judge  of  the  value  of  my  atten- 
tions ? " 

[34] 


A  GIEL  NAMED  BENICIA 

**Very  naturally  I  have  appointed  that  posi- 
tion to  myself,  senor,  since  Senorita  O'Donoju 
is  to  become  my  wife/' 

**Ah!''  Grant's  interjection  did  not  carry 
all  the  irony  he  would  have  wished.  His 
assurance  was  a  trifle  shaken. 

'*And  so,"  the  little  man  continued,  ''it  is 
understood.  You  will  not  address  the  lady 
further."     Grant  laughed. 

*'My  understanding  is  very  weak  and  not 
at  all  reliable.  I  promise  you  that  unless  the 
lady  objects  I  shall  continue  to  address  her 
whenever  opportunity  presents." 

The  little  figure  in  the  doorway  straightened 
itself  in  an  access  of  dignity.  He  snapped  his 
cigarette  over  the  car  rail. 

**  Senor,  let  us  have  no  misunderstanding. 
We  approach  the  Border,  where  every  man 
works  justice  according  to  the  dictates  of  his 
own  conscience.  To-morrow  we  touch  Mexico, 
where  it  is  known  that  Colonel  Hamilcar  Urgo 
is  a  law  unto  himself.  I  am  that  Colonel  Hamil- 
car Urgo.    Need  I  go  farther?" 

''And  I  am  Captain  Grant  Hickman,  formerly 
of  the  First  Division,  Expeditionary  Forces. 
Go  as  far  as  you  like!" 


[35] 


CHAPTER  m 

DOC  STOODEB 

"l^riTH  evenly  divided  cause  and  eqnal 
^  ^  cheerfulness  Grant  could  have  kicked  the 
porter  and  himself  when  he  awoke  tardily  next 
morning  and  found  his  car  at  a  standstill.  He 
raised  the  berth  curtain  and  looked  out.  On 
the  eaves  of  a  station  he  saw  a  white  board  with 
the  name  *'Arizora"  painted  upon  it  and  certain 
irrelevant  advice  as  to  the  distance  to  New  Or- 
leans and  to  Culiacan.  Out  through  the  curtains 
popped  his  head  and  he  whistled  the  porter. 

**Why  didn't  you  give  me  a  call!"  was  his 
angry  demand 

**Yassuh,  yassuh,  ev'body  in  this  kyar  gets 
out  here.  Mos'  have  gone  an'  done  it  a 'ready. 
You  see,  Cap'n,  this  kyar's  been  switched  off 
here  at  the  Line  two  hours  ago;  train's  kep' 
right  on  goin'  into  Sonora." 

Grant,  cursing  his  luck,  boiled  into  his  clothes 

and  made  a  race  for  the  washroom.    He  was 

hoping  against  luck  that  Benicia  0  'Dono ju  had 

not  been  an  earlier  riser  than  himself.    With 

[36] 


DOC  STOODER 

his  face  puffy  with  lather,  he  stopped  from 
minute  to  minute  to  peep  through  the  window 
giving  onto  the  station  platform.  A  decrepit 
autobus  was  backed  up  against  the  curb  with  a 
few  passengers  sitting  patiently  on  its  frayed 
seats;  loungers  were  dangling  their  legs  from 
baggage  trucks;  under  wooden  awnings  of  a 
business  block  across  from  the  station  a  Mexi- 
can was  languidly  sweeping  out  a  store!  Ari- 
zora  had  not  yet  come  to  life. 

Just  as  Grant  was  towelling  the  last  rem- 
nants of  shaving  lather  from  his  cheeks  he  made 
another  quick  survey  of  the  platform  and  his 
heart  dropped  into  his  shoes.  Benicia  walked 
into  the  field  of  the  washroom  window;  with 
her  the  unspeakable  Spaniard,  who  carried  her 
neat  travelling  satchel  as  well  as  his  own  bag. 
The  girl  was  fresh  as  the  dawn  in  a  suit  of 
khaki,  short-skirted  over  high  laced  boots  of 
russet  leather.  Rebellious  hair  strayed  from 
beneath  the  brim  of  a  soft-crowned  Stetson, 
saucily  noosed  to  her  head  by  a  fillet  of  leather 
under  her  chin.  Soft  green  of  a  scarf  lightly 
drew  together  at  her  throat  the  wings  of  her 
khaki  collar.  Nothing  of  the  theatrical  or 
self-consciousness  of  tailoring  in  the  picture 
the  desert  girl  made ;  she  was  the  spirit  of  the 
Southwest,  unsophisticated  and  without  pre- 
[37] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

tence.  By  her  side  the  little  Spaniard  witli  his 
knife-edged  trousers  and  thin-waisted  coat  ap- 
peared comic. 

As  Grant,  towel  in  hand,  lingered  by  the  win- 
dow feeding  his  soul  with  vain  regrets,  a  crazy 
thing  on  wheels  swung  around  the  station  and 
came  to  a  stop  by  the  girl's  side.  It  might  have 
been  called  an  automobile  by  courtesy,  though 
there  was  little  to  identify  it  as  a  member  of 
the  gas  family  save  that  it  went  of  its  own  trac- 
tion. Engine  naked,  dash  gone,  two  high-backed 
seats  of  unpainted  tin  like  the  wing  of  an  old- 
fashioned  sitz-bath  and  unprotected  by  a  top; 
behind  these  a  home-built  box  body  wherein  a 
trunk  and  a  suitcase  were  lashed.  Grant  was 
seeing  his  first  desert  speeder,  rebuilt  for 
service  of  a  highly  specialized  kind.  The  man 
at  the  wheel  was  no  less  in  character — an  In- 
dian in  overalls  and  high  peaked  sombrero;  a 
giant  of  a  man  with  shoulders  of  a  wrestler 
and  dull  bronze  features  of  a  Eoman  bust. 

What  ensued  upon  the  arrival  of  the  auto 
nearly  drove  the  watcher,  shirtless  as  he  was, 
out  to  two-fisted  intervention.  Urgo,  the  sala- 
mander, evidently  was  of  a  mind  to  make  a 
third  in  the  car.  Grant  saw  his  humped  shoul- 
ders and  expostulating  hands,  saw  Benicia  tilt 
her  chin  as  she  gave  him  some  cold  refusal. 

[38] 


DOC  STOODER 

But  the  colonel  calmly  stowed  his  suitcase  by 
the  side  of  the  trunk  in  the  box  body,  evidently 
planning  to  use  it  as  a  seat.  Again  Benicia, 
now  in  her  place  by  the  side  of  the  Indian  giant, 
turned  to  give  him  peremptory  refusal.  The 
Indian  at  the  wheel  had  his  engine  going  and 
was  sitting  statue-like,  utterly  detached  from 
the  quarrel. 

Urgo  stepped  on  the  rear  wheel's  hub  and 
had  one  hand  on  the  floor  of  the  box  body  when 
one  of  the  Indian's  hands  flashed  up  the  spark 
even  as  his  foot  went  down  on  the  gear  pedal. 
The  crazy  little  car  leaped  like  a  singed  cat. 
Colonel  Urgo  cut  a  neat  arc,  hit  the  road  on 
his  back  and  rolled  over  just  in  time  to  escape 
receiving  amidships  his  suitcase,  which  the  In- 
dian driver  had  dropped  from  the  car  without 
turning  his  head. 

In  the  Pullman  washroom  Grant  collapsed  to 
the  seat  and  smeared  soap  into  his  eyes  while 
he  tried  to  check  tears  of  laughter.  The  fall 
of  the  peppery  little  Spaniard  had  been  colos- 
sal, and  he  guessed  it  had  been  wrought  at  the 
quick  prompting  of  the  spirited  girl  in  khaki. 
What  a  wonder  she  was !  All  laughter  and  bub- 
bling spirits  one  minute;  quick  as  a  leopard  to 
strike  the  next. 

**Man" — Grant  addressed  a  beaming  face  in 
[39] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  glass — **man,  always  lay  your  bets  on  a  red- 
headed girl!'' 

That  minute  of  communion  with  a  smiling 
confidant  was  an  important  one  in  the  life  of 
Grant  Hickman,  cautious  bachelor.  For  it  came 
to  him  with  the  force  of  a  hammer  blow  that  he 
wanted  and  must  have  this  vivid  creature  of  the 
desert  named  Benicia  O'Donoju.  Girl  of  fire 
and  sparkle — of  a  spirit  free  and  piquant  as 
the  winds  that  blow  across  the  wastes — ^un- 
spoiled of  cities  and  the  stale  conventions  of 
drawing  rooms.  Oh,  he  would  have  her !  Gone 
she  might  be,  out  into  a  land  beyond  his  ken. 
Unguessed  barriers  of  circumstance,  of  others' 
intervention,  might  have  to  be  scaled ;  but  some- 
how, somewhere,  Grant  Hickman  was  going  to 
find  and  win  Benicia  O'Donoju. 

Love  at  first  sight — old-fashioned,  mid- Vic- 
torian stuff,  says  the  cynical  debutante  over  her 
cigarette  and  outlaw  cocktail.  In  New  York 
tearooms  and  Washington  ballrooms,  quite  so. 
Where  girls  of  twenty  must  know  the  sum  that 
stands  in  bank  to  Clarence's  credit,  before 
Clarence  is  marked  down  as  eligible,  love  at 
first  sight  is,  in  truth,  dead  as  the  dodo  bird. 
Even  so,  spirit  still  calls  to  spirit  and  like  leaps 
to  like  most  all  the  world  over.  It  is  only  where 
[40] 


DOC  STOODER 

fungus  spots  stain  the  garden  thax  love  will 
not  bloom. 

When  Grant  quit  the  Pullman  Colonel  XJrgo 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Grant  idly  wondered 
as  he  walked  to  the  hotel,  directly  across  a  plaza 
from  the  station,  how  long  it  would  be  before 
he  encountered  this  half-portion  rival  of  his 
and  what  would  be  the  Spaniard's  first  move 
in  his  frank  threat  of  reprisals  of  the  night  be- 
fore. But  when  he  was  shown  to  his  room — 
and  the  New  York  man  whimsically  reflected  he 
had  seen  better  ones  at  the  Admiral  on  Madi- 
son Avenue — events  of  recent  hours  were 
pushed  back  from  his  attention  by  the  more 
immediate  demands  of  his  presence  in  Arizora. 
He  took  from  his  suitcase  the  letter  that  had 
brought  him  sky-hooting  across  the  continent 
to  this  back-water  of  life  on  the  Mexican  Line 
and  skimmed  it  through: 

**  ...  I  know  just  how  hard  it  is  for  you 
to  settle  down  to  office  routine  after  the  Big 
Show.  All  of  us  are  in  the  same  fix,  Old-timer, 
but  I  have  the  edge  on  you  because  out  here  in 
this  man's  country  there's  something  breaking 
every  minute.  That's  the  reason  I'm  writing 
you  this  mysterious  letter.  .  .  .  Old  Doc  Stooder 

[41] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

is  counted  the  prime  nut  of  Southern  Arizona, 
but  I  believe  he's  got  a  whale  of  a  proposition 
and  that's  why  I'm  counting  myself — ^and  you — 
in  on  the  deal. 

**I've  sewed  myself  up  with  him — ^promised 
not  to  peep  a  word  of  the  real  dope  to  you  in 
this  letter.  The  old  Doc  says,  *We'll  need  a 
good  engineer  and  if  your  buddy  in  France  has 
a  head  on  him  and  knows  how  to  keep  his  mouth 
shut  tell  him  to  come  out  here.'  ...  So  if  you 
still  have  that  old  take-a-chance  spirit  that 
hopped  you  through  the  Big  Mill  from  Cantigny 
to  Sedan  I'll  see  you  in  Arizora.  If  I'm  not 
in  town  when  you  arrive  dig  up  Doc  Stooder — 
everybody  knows  him. 

**  Yours  for  the  big  chance, 

Grant  folded  the  letter  with  a  smile.  Good 
old  Bim  with  his  ** whale  of  a  proposition." 
Running  true  to  form  was  Bim  in  this  character- 
istic letter.  Just  as  Grant  had  come  to  know 
and  love  him  in  training  area  and  dugout :  Bim 
Bagley,  six-feet-one  of  tough  Arizona  bone  and 
muscle  and  brimful  of  wild  optimism.  Always 
ready  to  take  a  chance,  whether  at  the  enemy 
on  all  fours  through  midnight  mud  or  at  for- 
tune in  the  wild  lands  of  the  Border :  that  was 
[42] 


DOC  STOODER 

Bim  Bagley  of  Arizona,  **tlie  finest  country  in 
the  Southwest." 

And  Bim  had  shot  truer  than  he  could  know 
when  he  sent  this  hint  of  big  things  in  the  oflfing 
back  to  a  man  two  years  out  of  uniform  and 
moping  for  excitement  on  the  sixteenth  floor  of 
a  skyscraper  in  Manhattan.  Two  years  of 
civilian's  life  had  been  just  that  span  of  slow 
moral  suffocation  for  Grant.  For  all  his  thirty 
years,  for  all  his  better  than  moderate  success 
in  a  profession  of  sharp  competition,  Grant 
Hickman  still  could  hear  the  call  to  the  swim- 
min'  hole  of  adventure.  How  he  had  yearned 
to  hear  it  these  past  two  years  when  the  springs 
of  his  soul  still  tingled  with  the  high  tension 
of  battle  lines!  Then  this  letter  from  a  pal, 
promising  all  the  substance  of  his  dreams.  It 
had  not  been  a  week  in  the  engineer's  pocket 
before  he  was  on  the  train  for  Arizora. 

Grant  went  out  to  find  Bagley.  He  located 
his  office — *^ Insurance,  Bonds,  Investments'' 
was  the  sign  on  the  glass  of  the  door;  but  the 
lock  was  turned  and  no  one  opened  at  his  knock. 
His  eye  caught  a  corner  of  white  paper  project- 
ing through  the  letter  slot. 

** Grant: — Called  out  of  town — ^back  Friday. 
B.  B."  was  the  scrawl  across  the  face  of  it.  A 
stab  of  disappointment  was  his ;  he  had  builded 
[43] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

heavily  on  that  moment  of  meeting  when  Bim's 
big  hand  would  have  his  own  in  a  vise.  Nothing 
to  do  now  hut  see  the  town  and  amuse  himself 
as  he  might,  or  call  on  that  mysterious  Doc 
Stooder  and  discover  why  Grant  Hickman  had 
come  racing  out  to  this  Arizora.  He  decided 
to  do  both. 

The  Arizora  Grant  saw  in  an  hour's  swinging 
round  the  circle  was  something  different  from 
the  *^hick  town*'  his  New  York  smugness  had 
pictured  in  anticipation.  It  was  a  condensed 
El  Paso,  jammed  in  the  narrow  compass  of  a 
mountain  gorge,  with  railroad  yards  monopoliz- 
ing the  whole  of  the  flat  space  between  crowding 
hills.  A  man  could  go  from  his  home  to  business 
by  the  simple  trick  of  leaping  off  the  front  porch 
of  his  bungalow  with  an  opened  umbrella.  Ari- 
zora's  streets  were  jammed  with  cars — fantastic 
desert  coursers  stripped  to  the  nines  and  with 
canteens  strapped  to  the  running  board.  Side- 
walks swarmed  with  men — ^big  men  with  steady 
eyes  looking  out  from  beneath  sombreros  the 
size  of  a  woman's  garden  hat;  men  with  high- 
heeled  boots  and  the  pins  of  many  lodges  stuck 
on  their  unbuttoned  vests;  lantern-jawed,  hol- 
low-templed men  of  the  sun,  whose  bodies  were 
indurated  by  the  desert  law  of  struggle  and 
whose  souls  were  simple  as  a  fairy  book. 
[44] 


DOC  STOODER 

Across  Main  Street  stretched  a  fence  of  rab- 
bit-proof wire  with  three  strands  of  barbed 
wire  topping  that ;  a  fence  with  something  like 
a  pasture  gate  swung  back  for  traffic.  This  was 
the  Line.  On  the  hither  side  of  that  rabbit- 
proof  wire  web  the  authority  of  a  President  and 
his  Congress  stopped ;  on  the  far  side  the  author- 
ity of  quite  a  different  president  and  his  pe- 
culiar congress  began.  Over  yonder,  where 
stood  a  man  under  a  straw  sombrero  and  with 
a  rifle  hung  on  one  shoulder,  lay  Sonora  and  the 
beginning  of  a  thousand  mile  stretch  of  fan- 
tastic land. called  Mexico.  A  cart  with  solid 
wooden  wheels  and  drawn  by  oxen  under  a  pon- 
derous yoke  blocked  the  way  of  a  twelve-cylinder 
auto  seeking  clearance  at  the  international  gate. 

When  he  had  tired  of  sight  seeing  Grant  in- 
quired at  a  cigar  counter  where  Dr.  Stooder 
could  be  found.  The  breezy  man  in  shirt- 
sleeves grinned  and  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the 
wall  behind  him. 

**Well,  sir,  usually  mornings  he's  over  across 
the  Line  getting  organized  for  the  day  on  te- 
quila. Mostly  he  comes  back  to  his  office  round 
noon  time,  steppin '  wide  and  handsome.  Office 's 
over  yonder,  top-side  of  the  Bon  Ton  barber 
shop.    You  might  give  it  a  look.'' 

Grant  acted  on  the  cigar  clerk's  advice.  He 
[45] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

located  a  dingy  door  at  the  end  of  a  dark  upper 
hallway  with  the  lettering,  **A.  Stooder,  M.D./' 
on  a  tin  sign  over  the  transom.  Entering,  he 
found  himself  in  a  sad  company.  Three  Mexi- 
can women  and  a  man  of  the  same  race  sat  like 
mourners  on  chairs  about  the  wall;  a  big-eyed 
child  squatted  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and 
listlessly  pulled  a  magazine  to  bits.  The  stamp 
of  woe  and  of  infinite  patience  was  set  on  all 
the  dark  faces.  Mephitic  smell  of  iodoform  was 
in  the  air.  Grant  hastily  withdrew.  After  an 
hour's  walking  and  when  the  whistles  were  blow- 
ing noon  he  returned.  A  different  collection 
of  patient  waiters  occupied  the  chairs;  evi- 
dently the  doctor  was  in  and  at  work. 

He  took  a  chair  by  the  window  where  he 
could  look  down  into  the  street  and  so  keep  the 
set  masks  of  misery  out  of  his  eyes.  After 
fifteen  minutes  the  door  to  the  inner  office  was 
violently  opened  and  a  Mexican  woman  shot 
out  of  it  as  if  propelled  by  a  kick.  Thundering 
Spanish  pursued  her.  Grant  saw  a  scarecrow 
figure  framed  in  the  doorway. 

Tall  beyond  the  average  and  gaunt  almost  to 
the  point  of  emaciation;  frock  coated  like  a 
senator  of  the  Eighties;  thin  shoulders  seem- 
ing bowed  by  the  weight  of  the  garments  hung 
thereon;  enormous,  heavily  veined  hands  car- 
[46] 


DOC  STOODER 

ried  as  if  hooked  onto  invisible  hinges  behind 
the  stained  white  cuffs: — this  the  superficial 
aspect  of  Dr.  Stooder.  Vital  character  of  the 
man  was  all  summed  up  in  his  face:  skin  like 
wrinkled  vellum  stretched  on  a  rack ;  eyes  glint- 
ing from  deep  caves  on  either  side  of  a  veri- 
table crag  of  a  nose  which  had  been  broken  and 
skewed  off  the  true.  A  great  mane  of  grey  hair 
reared  up  and  back  from  his  high  forehead; 
tufts  of  the  same  colour  on  lip  and  chin  in  the 
ancient  mode  of  the  ** Imperial''  added  the  last 
daguerreotype  touch  to  his  features. 

Black  eyes  roved  the  room  and  fell  on  Grant, 
who  had  risen.  The  doctor  crooked  a  bony  fin- 
ger at  him  and  he  passed  through  into  the  pri- 
vate office,  taking  the  seat  indicated.  Without 
paying  his  visitor  the  least  heed.  Dr.  Stooder 
went  to  a  closet,  poured  two  fingers  of  some 
white  liquid  into  a  graduating  glass  and  drank 
it.  His  lips  smacked  like  a  pistol  shot.  Then 
he  returned  and  took  a  swivel  chair  before  a 
very  shabby  and  littered  desk. 

**I  never  seen  you  before,  sah" — the  man's 
accent  reeked  of  Texas,  the  old  Texas  before 
the  oil  invasions.  **So  I'll  answer  the  question 
every  stranger's  just  mortal  dying  to  ask  and 
don't  dare.  How'd  I  come  to  get  this  scar?" 
The  surprising  doctor  tilted  his  great  head  back 
[47] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

and  traced  with  his  fore-finger  an  angry  weal 
which  encircled  his  throat  like  a  collar  gall. 
**Well,  sah,  I  was  informally  hanged  once — 
and  cut  down.  Now  we  can  get  down  to  busi- 
ness.   What's  your  symptoms?'' 

Grant,  caught  off  balance  by  so  unconven- 
tional a  reception,  stammered  that  he  had  no 
symptoms. 

*  *  My  friend,  Bim  Bagley,  who  is  out  of  town 
for  a  few  days,  told  me  to  look  you  up.  My 
name  is  Grant  Hickman.  I'm  from  New  York. ' ' 
The  black  eyes,  never  deviating  from  their  dis- 
concerting stare,  showed  no  flicker  of  recog- 
nition at  the  name. 

**What  you  want  of  me  if  you  have  no  symp- 
toms?" abruptly  in  the  doctor's  nasal  bray. 
"I'm  not  in  the  market  for  the  World's  Library 
of  Wit  and  Humour.  I'll  cut  you  for  a  tumour 
or  dose  you  for  dyspepsia;  but  I  won't  buy  a 
book." 

*'I  have  no  books  to  sell."  Grant  found  his 
temperature  rising.  **I  have  come  out  from 
New  York  because  you  told  my  friend  Bagley  to 
send  for  me." 

Doc  Stooder  suddenly  snapped  out  of  his  chair 
like  a  yard  rule  unfolding  and  strode  to  the 
closet.  With  bottle  and  graduating  glass  poised 
he  bent  a  severe  eye  upon  his  visitor. 

[48] 


DOC  STOODER 

**You  say  you  don't  drink.  HigHy  commen- 
dable. I  do. "  Again  the  pistol  shot  from  satis- 
fied lips.  He  replaced  the  bottle  and  tucked 
his  hands  under  the  tails  of  his  coat  where  they 
flapped  the  sleazy  garment  restlessly. 

**You  call  yourself  an  engineer.  How  do  I 
know  you  are?" 

Grant  had  said  nothing  about  being  an  en* 
gineer.  Doc  Stooder  had  identified  him  right 
enough.    What  reason  for  his  bluff,  then? 

**My  dear  sir,  graduates  of  Boston  Tech.  do 
not  carry  their  diplomas  round  with  them  on 
their  key  rings.  You'll  have  to  take  Bagley's 
word  for  it  that  I'm  an  engineer  if  my  own  is 
not  convincing." 

The  gangling  doctor  took  two  turns  of  the 
office  with  enormous  strides;  one  hand  tugged 
at  his  straggling  goatee.  Abruptly  he  stopped 
by  Grant's  chair. 

**  Young  man,  what  need  do  you  figure  a  doc- 
tor in  Arizora  would  have  of  an  engineer — ^more 
especial  an  engineer  from  New  York?  Why 
should  I  tell  this  Bagley,  who's  as  crazy  as  a 
June-bug,  to  fetch  a  graduate  engineer  out  to 
Arizora?  Engineers  are  a  drug  on  the  market 
here — and  every  one  of  'em  a  crook." 

Grant's  patience  snapped.  He  rose  and  strode 
to  the  door. 

[49] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

**Dr.  Stooder,  I  didn't  come  away  out  here 
to  your  town  to  have  somebody  play  horse  with 
me.  When  you  are  sober  you  can  find  me  at 
the  International  Hotel." 

A  grin  started  under  Doc  Stooder 's  mous- 
tache and  travelled  swiftly  to  his  ears. 

**God  bless  my  soul,  boy!  When  I'm  sober, 
you  say.  I'm  never  sober  and  I  hope  I  never 
will  be—" 

Grant  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 


[50] 


CHAPTER  IV 

COLONEL  XJEGO  REPAYS 

BEFORE  lie  had  descended  to  the  street 
Grant  began  to  regret  his  flash  of  anger 
which  had  launched  him  out  of  Doc  Stooder's 
office.  To  be  sure,  the  unconventional  doctor 
had  been  insulting ;  his  was  hardly  the  orthodox 
reception  to  be  expected  by  one  who  had  crossed 
the  continent  to  become  his  partner  in  some  hid- 
den enterprise.  Equally  certain  it  was  that,  to 
apply  the  cigar  clerk's  pat  phrase,  Stooder  was 
''organized  for  the  day";  the  finishing  touches 
to  that  organization  had  been  made  in  two  trips 
to  the  closet  in  Grant's  presence.  Need  one 
have  been  so  touchy  under  these  alcoholic  cir- 
cumstances? 

Strive  as  he  would  to  put  the  best  face  on  the 
matter,  the  man  from  New  York  could  not  es- 
cape a  lowering  of  the  spiritual  barometer.  Here 
he  was,  a  stranger  in  an  outlandish  desert  town 
with  none  to  give  him  so  much  as  a  friendly 
glance.  Glances  enough  came  his  way,  but  they 
were  inspired  by  his  clothes,  the  cut  of  which 
[51] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

seemed  to  put  them  beyond  the  pale.  Grant 
pleasured  himself  by  reviewing  his  case  in  the 
most  pessimistic  light.  He  had  been  but  a  fort- 
night ago  a  sober  and  industrious  citizen.  Came 
to  him  a  wild  letter  hinting  darkly  of  some 
shadowy  enterprise  in  a  bleak  land.  Instantly 
he  had  quit  his  work  and  galloped  across  two 
thousand  miles  to  encounter  a  scarecrow  cynic 
who  greeted  him  as  a  book  agent. 

He  wandered  aimlessly  beyond  the  town  and 
out  onto  a  road  which  wound  up  to  the  edge 
of  one  of  the  mesas  which  were  the  eaves  of 
Arizora.  Well  might  drivers  of  passing  cars 
stare  at  the  figure  of  a  broad-shouldered  young 
man  in  a  black  derby  and  double-breasted  coat, 
who  was  afoot  in  a  country  where  no  man  walks 
unless  he  carries  a  blanket  on  his  shoulders — 
unless  he  is  a  '*stii¥,"  in  the  phrase  of  the 
Southwest.  Even  though  February  was  but 
on  the  wane,  already  the  sun  was  guarantor  of 
a  promise  to  pay  with  heat  interest  in  sixty 
days. 

He  came  to  the  top  of  the  rise  and  halted  un- 
der the  psychic  compulsion  of  boundless  space. 
For  space,  crystalline  and  ethereal  as  the  gulf 
between  stars,  flowed  from  him  as  an  ocean. 
The  air  that  filled  this  space  was  so  thin,  so 
impalpable  as  to  seem  no  air  at  all,  and  it  was 

[52] 


COLONEL  URGO  REPAYS 

tinted  faint  gold  by  reflection  from  the  desert 
below.  Mountains  near  and  far  were  so  many 
detached  reefs  taking  the  silent  surf  of  the  ocean 
of  space;  they  were  tawny  where  shadows  did 
not  smear  purple-black  down  their  sides.  Near 
at  hand  showed  the  grim  desert  growths :  prickly 
clumps  of  cholla,  whose  new  daggers  sparkled 
like  frosted  glass;  fluted  columns  of  sahuaro, 
or  giant  cactus,  lifting  their  fat  arms  twenty 
and  thirty  feet  ^above  the  ground ;  vivid  green 
of  cottonwoods  laid  in  a  streak  to  mark  a  secret 
watercourse. 

To  the  man  just  come  from  the  softness  and 
languor  of  Eastern  landscapes,  where  lakes  lie 
in  the  laps  of  green  hillocks,  this  first  intimate 
view  of  the  desert  carried  some  subtle  terror 
prick.  The  iron  savagery  of  it!  What  right 
had  man  or  beast  to  venture  here? 

Then  flashed  to  his  mind  the  picture  of  Be- 
nicia  O'Donoju,  the  girl  who  loved  the  desert, 
who  felt  she  was  prisoner  only  when  hedged 
about  by  the  walls  of  cities  in  the  East.  Some- 
where to  the  south  where  a  higher  raft  of  peaks 
marked  Sonora's  mystery  land — somewhere  in 
country  like  this  she  was  speeding  to  her  home. 
What  kind  of  a  home  might  that  be  !  How  could 
a  ^rl  with  the  bounding  vitality  that  was  hers 
find  life  worth  living  in  a  land  enslaved  by 
[53] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

thirst  ?  A  hundred  miles  from  town  or  railroad, 
she  had  said: — a  hundred  miles  deep  in  such 
a  wilderness  her  home !  Heavens,  how  he  pitied 
her! 

Grant  turned  back  to  the  town,  revolving  over 
and  over  in  his  mind  the  first  steps  he  would 
have  to  take  to  learn  where  Benicia  O'Donoju 
lived;  and,  haply  discovering  the  place  of  her 
abode,  how  to  get  there. 

By  the  time  night  fell  the  restless  visitor  to 
Arizora  had  exhausted  the  town's  opportunities 
for  amusement.  He  crossed  the  Line  into  the 
companion  Mexican  community,  Sonizona.  Here 
was  beguilement  enough.  The  rabbit-proof 
fence  which  converted  Main  Street  into  a  Calle 
Benito  Juarez  also  marked  a  frontier  no  less 
obvious.  North  of  the  fence  was  aridity  to  re- 
joice the  conscience  of  the  most  enthusiastic 
prohibitionist ;  south  of  it  the  frail  goddess  Vir- 
tue tottered  in  her  step.  In  Arizona  a  man 
sought  traps  and  deadfalls  consciously  and  with 
a  secret  thrill  of  bravado ;  in  Sonora  he  avoided 
them  only  by  the  most  circumspect  watching 
of  his  step.  Dark  streets  winding  along  the 
contours  of  the  crowding  mountains  were  rau- 
cous with  the  bray  of  phonographs  and  the  tin- 
panning  of  pianos.   Lattices  over  darkened  win- 

[54] 


COLONEL  URGO  REPAYS 

dows  trembled  as  one  passed  and  the  ghosts  of 
whispers  fluttered  through  them.  Where  an 
occasional  arc  lamp  threw  a  spot  of  radiance 
across  the  'dobe  road  lurked  shadowy  creatures 
who  whined  in  an  American  dialect  for  money 
to  buy  drugs. 

Grant  did  not  realize  that  when  he  passed 
through  the  rabbit-proof  fence  he  left  behind 
him  everything  for  which  he  paid  income  tax  and 
other  doles — protection,  due  processes  of  law, 
all  the  checks  and  balances  on  society  and  the 
individual  painstakingly  built  up  under  the 
Anglo-Saxon  scheme  of  things.  He  did  not  con- 
ceive himself  in  the  light  of  an  alien — of  a  not- 
too-popular  nation — gratuitously  placing  him- 
self under  the  protection  of  laws  quite  the  oppo- 
site in  terms  of  interpretation.  Nor  did  he  ap- 
preciate that,  save  for  his  suitcase  and  a  signa- 
ture on  a  hotel  register,  he  had  left  behind  him 
nothing  to  bear  testimony  to  the  fact  that  a 
man  named  Grant  Hickman  had  come  to  Ari- 
zora  and  had  left  the  United  States  to  enter 
Mexico.  All  these  inattentions  he  recalled  later 
when  opportunity  for  correction  had  passed. 

Grant  was  circling  the  plaza,  where  the  mu- 
nicipal band  was  giving  a  concert,  when  amid 
the  strollers  he  thought  he  saw  a  familiar  face. 
[55] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

He  looked  again  and  was  snre.  Little  Colonel 
Urgo,  in  a  snappy  uniform  of  dark  blue  with 
back-turned  cape,  was  walking  witb  a  woman 
whose  beauty  was  that  of  the  blown  peony. 
Chance  brought  Urgo 's  eyes  Grant 's  way.  They 
lighted  with  sudden  surprise,  then  the  colonel 
brought  up  his  hand  in  a  salute.  A  flash  of 
teeth  was  cut  by  the  travelling  hand;  it  was 
like  a  too  quick  shutter  on  the  villain's  smile 
in  Way  Down  East. 

Grant  doffed  his  hat  and  passed  on.  Half 
an  hour  later  a  particularly  glittering  sheaf  of 
lights  he  had  noted  in  earlier  saunterings 
pricked  his  curiosity  and  he  turned  into  a  low 
building  just  off  the  plaza.  A  bare  front  room 
easily  visible  from  the  street  was  a  too  obvi- 
ous blind  for  complacent  police  inspection; 
through  an  open  arch  in  its  rear  wall  a  crowded 
gambling  room  was  given  false  length  by  wall 
mirrors  in  dingy  frames.  Fifty  or  more  men 
and  women  were  clustered  about  roulette,  faro 
and  crap  tables.  A  fat  Chinaman  with  a  face 
expressionless  as  a  bowl  of  jelly  sat  on  a  dais 
behind  a  little  desk  stacked  high  with  silver 
and  with  deft  movement  of  his  fingers  achieved 
nice  problems  in  international  exchange.  Pur- 
suit of  the  goddess  Luck  was  being  engaged  in 

[56] 


COLONEL  URGO  REPAYS 

with  a  frankness  and  business-like  absorption 
quite  different  from  furtive  evasions  of  bidden 
attic  and  camouflaged  club  across  the  Line. 

Grant  exchanged  a  ten-dollar  note  for  a  heavy 
stack  of  Mexican  silver  and  moved  over  to  a 
table  where  two  ivory  cubes  were  dancing  to 
the  droning  incantations  of  a  big  negro  game 
keeper.  He  was  curious  to  see  whether  Big 
Dick  and  Lady  Natural  were  as  temperamental 
a  couple  in  Mexico  as  he  had  discovered  them  to 
be  in  many  a  front-line  dugout  in  France. 

*'Come  to  papa!"  A  raw-boned  Arizonan 
across  the  table  was  singing  to  the  dice  held 
in  his  cupped  palms,  huge  as  waffle  irons;  a 
humorous  imp  of  strong  liquor  danced  in  his 
eyes.  '^Cap'n  come  down  the  gangplank  and 
says,  'Good  mawnin'.  Seven!'  " 

The  ring  of  dark  faces  about  the  green  cloth 
stirred  and  white  teeth  flashed  unlovely  smiles 
when  a  six  and  a  one  winked  up  from  the  dice. 
A  chinking  of  silver  dollars  as  a  red  paw  gath- 
ered them  in. 

*'Baby!  Now  meet  you'  grandpaw,  Ole  Man 
E-oleven.  Wham!  Lookit!  Five  an'  a  six 
makes  e'oleven!  How's  that  for  nussin'  'em 
along,  white  man?"  The  crap  wizard  looked 
across  to  Grant  and  grinned  in  amity.  Mexican 
[57] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

scowls  accompanied  the  covering  of  the  winner's 
pile  left  temptingly  untouched.  Grant  felt  an 
undefined  tugging  of  race  bonds  here  in  this 
ring  of  alien  faces,  and  he  backed  the  Arizonan 
against  the  field.  On  his  third  throw  the  big 
fellow  made  his  point. 

** That's  harvestin'!  That's  bringin'  in  the 
sheaves !  Now  here 's  my  stack  of  'dobe  dollars 
for  any  Mex  to  cop  if  he  thinks  the  copping 's 
good." 

When  it  came  Grant's  turn  to  throw  his  new- 
found friend  played  him  vociferously  against 
the  Mexican  field,  calling  upon  all  present  to 
witness  that  a  white  man  sure  could  skin  any- 
thing under  a  sombrero,  from  craps  to  parchesi. 
For  the  first  time  since  he  had  left  the  train  that 
morning  the  New  Yorker  felt  the  warming  tingle 
of  fellowship ;  the  gaunt,  sunburned  face  of  the 
desert  man  with  the  dancing  imps  of  humour  in 
the  eyes  was  a  jovial  hailing  sign  of  fraternity. 

** Shoot  'em.  Mister  Man!  You're  rigged  for 
Broadway,  Noo  Yawk,  but  I  can  see  from  here 
that  you  has  the  lovin'  touch." 

Grant  rolled  and  won,  rolled  and  won  again. 
Carelessly  he  dropped  the  heavy  fistfuls  of  dol- 
lars into  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat.  Even  when 
he  lost  his  point,  he  had  a  bulging  weight  of 
silver  there.  Grant  was  enjoying  the  game  it- 
[58] 


COLONEL  UEGO  EEPAYS 

self  not  nearly  so  keenly  as  he  did  the  Arizonan 
across  the  table,  his  Homeric  humour  and  the 
bewildering  wonder  of  his  vocabulary.  So  in- 
tent was  he  that  he  did  not  see  Colonel  Urgo 
enter,  nor  did  he  catch  the  almost  imperceptible 
nod  toward  him  that  the  little  officer  passed  to 
a  furtive-eyed  tatterdemalion  who  accompanied 
him.  The  latter  by  a  devious  course  of  idling 
finally  came  to  a  stand  behind  Grant  and  ap- 
peared to  be  a  keen  spectator  of  the  game. 

**01e  Man  Jed  Hawkins'  son  is  a-goin'  splat- 
ter out  a  natch 'ral.  Ole  Man  Hawkins'  son  is 
a-goin'  turn  loose  the  hay  cutter  an'  mow  him 
a  mess  of  greens.  Comes  Little  Joe!  Dip  in, 
Mexes,  an'  takes  yo'  fodder!  Now  the  man 
from  Dos  Cabezas  starts  a-runnin' — " 

A  hand  was  busy  at  Grant's  pocket — a  slick, 
suave  hand  which  replaced  weight  for  weight 
what  it  subtracted.  Just  three  quick  passes 
and  the  tatterdemalion  who  had  been  so  intent 
on  the  prancing  dice  lost  interest  and  moved 
away. 

It  came  Grant's  turn  to  roll  the  dice.  He 
dipped  into  his  pocket  and  carelessly  dropped 
a  stack  of  eight  silver  dollars  on  the  table.  One 
of  them  rolled  a  little  way  and  flopped  in  front 
of  a  Mexican  player.  The  latter  started  to  pass 
the  dollar  back  to  Grant  when  he  hesitated,  gave 
[59] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  coin  a  sharp  scrutiny,  then  balanced  it  on  a 
finger  tip  and  struck  its  edge  with  one  from  his 
own  pile. 

*  *  Senor ! ' '  An  ugly  droop  to  his  smiling  lips, 
*^Ah,  no,  sehor!*' 

He  passed  the  dollar  over  to  Grant  with  ex- 
aggerated courtesy.  Eyes  all  about  the  table, 
which  had  followed  the  pantomime  with  avid 
interest,  now  centred  on  the  American's  face. 
As  if  on  a  signal  the  fat  Chinaman  at  the  ex- 
change desk  waddled  over  to  shoulder  his  way 
officiously  to  Grant's  side.  He  growled  some- 
thing in  Spanish  and  held  out  his  hand.  Dazedly 
Grant  laid  the  suspected  dollar  in  a  creasy  palm. 
The  Chinaman  flung  it  on  the  green  felt  with  a 
contemptuous  *^Faugh!''  and  he  pointed  impe- 
riously at  Grant's  bulging  pocket. 

**It's  a  frame,  pardner,"  called  the  Arizonan. 
'^If  your  money's  bogus  it's  what  the  Chink 
himself  handed  you." 

**I  came  in  here  with  American  money  and 
changed  it  at  your  desk,"  Grant  quietly  ad- 
dressed the  Chinaman.  **See  here;  this  is  the 
money  I  either  got  from  you  or  won  at  this 
table. ' '  He  brought  from  his  pocket  a  brimming 
handful  of  Mexican  dollars  and  dumped  them 
on  the  cloth.  Two  or  three  of  the  heavy  discs 
[60] 


COLONEL  UEGO  REPAYS 

shono  true  silver;  the  others  were  clumsy  coun- 
terfeits, dull  and  leaden. 

A  cry,  half  snarling  laughter,  from  the  crowd 
about  the  table,  now  grown  to  a  score :  ^  ^  Aha — 
gr-ringo !  * ' 

A  movement  of  the  crowd  forward  to  rush 
Grant  against  the  wall.  Then  with  a  cougar's 
spring  the  big  Arizonan  was  on  the  solid  table, 
feet  spread  wide  apart,  head  towering  above 
the  tin  light  shade.  He  balanced  a  chair  in  one 
hand  as  the  conductor  of  an  orchestra  might  lift 
his  baton.  His  gaunt  features  were  split  in  a 
wide  grin.  Before  Grant  could  gather  his  senses 
a  big  paw  had  him  by  the  shoulder  and  was 
dragging  him  up  onto  the  green  island  of  refuge. 

**They  don't  saw  no  whizzer  off  on  a  white 
man  wiles  ole  Jed  Hawkins '  boy  got  his  health, ' ' 
Grant's  companion  bellowed  a  welcome.  **I 
got  these  greasers'  number,  brother!" 

Grant's  gaze  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  over  the 
heads  all  about  encountered  two  interesting  ob- 
jects. One  was  Colonel  Urgo,  who  stood  alone 
in  a  far  corner  of  the  room;  the  colonel  was 
smiling  with  rare  good  humour.  A  second  was 
a  man  wrapped  about  with  a  blanket,  over  whose 
shoulder  appeared  the  tip  of  a  rifle;  he  was 
just  coming  through  from  the  front  room  on  a 
[61] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

run  and  there  were  three  like  him  following. 
Rurales,  the  somewhat  informal  bandit-police- 
men of  Mexico. 

Just  what  ensued  Grant  never  could  quite 
piece  together.  He  remembered  seeing  Haw- 
kins wrench  off  a  leg  from  his  chair  and  send 
it  whizzing  at  a  central  cluster  of  light  globes 
in  mid-ceiling.  They  snuffed  out  with  a  thin 
tinkling  of  glass.    Then  the  rush. 

Out  of  the  dark  swirl  of  figures  about  the 
table's  edge  a  vivid  spit  of  flame — roar  of  a 
pistol  shot.  Hands  grappling  for  braced  legs 
on  the  table  top.  **Huh"  of  breath  expelled 
as  Hawkins  swung  his  chair  in  a  wide  sweep 
downward.  A  cry,  **Hesus!''  Oaths  chirped 
in  the  voice  of  songbirds.  A  knife  missing  its 
objective  and  trembling  rigid  in  the  midst  of 
the  baize. 

The  table  collapsed  with  dull  creakings,  and 
then  the  affair  of  mauling  and  writhing  became 
a  bear  pit.  Grant  fought  with  steady,  meas- 
ured short-arm  jabs  delivered  at  whatever  ob- 
ject lay  nearest.  When  one  arm  was  pinioned 
he  swung  the  other  against  the  restraining  body 
until  it  was  freed.  Some  one  sank  teeth  in  his 
shoulder. 

**Ride  'em,  Noo  Yawker !"  came  the  shrill  cry 
of  battle  from  somewhere  in  the  mill.    Then  a 

[62] 


COLONEL  URGO  EEPAYS 

blow  at  the  base  of  the  brain  which  meant  lights 
out  for  Grant. 

When  consciousness  came  halting  back  he 
found  himself  standing  half-supported  by  two 
of  the  rurales  in  a  dark  street  and  before  a  high 
gate  in  unbroken  masonry.  The  gate  swung  in- 
ward. He  was  propelled  violently  through  the 
dark  arch  and  into  a  small  room,  where  sat  a 
man  in  uniform  under  a  dusty  electric  globe. 
He  did  not  look  up  from  the  scratching  of  his 
pen  on  the  desk  before  him. 

A  door  behind  the  writing  man  opened  and 
Colonel  Urgo  entered.  His  start  at  seeing  the 
bloodied  and  half -clothed  figure  which  the  ru- 
rales supported  was  well  acted.  A  hand  came 
to  the  vizor  of  his  cap  in  mocking  salute.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  man  at  the  desk  and  exchanged 
low  words  with  him. 

**Ah,  Senor  'Ickman'' — Colonel  Urgo's  voice 
was  tender  as  the  dove's — ^*I  regret  to  learn  you 
are  here  in  the  car  eel  on  serious  charges.  The 
one,  counterfeiting  the  coin  of  Mexico ;  the  other, 
resisting  officers  of  the  law.  Very  regrettable, 
Senor  'Ickman.  But,  remembering  your  cour- 
tesies toward  me  on  the  train  yesterday,  let 
me  assure  you  of  my  willingness  to  serve  you 
in  any  way.    You  will  command  me,  senor.'' 

A  sudden  lightning  flash  of  comprehension 
[63] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

shot  through  the  clouds  that  pressed  down  on 
the  prisoner's  mind.  He  saw  the  whole  trick 
of  the  counterfeit  dollars  in  his  pocket  and  re- 
membered the  little  Spaniard's  threat  on  the 
observation  platform  of  the  train  the  night  be- 
fore: **  To-morrow  we  touch  Mexico,  where  it 
is  known  that  Colonel  Hamilcar  Urgo  is  a  law 
unto  himself/'  Grant  strained  forward  and  his 
mouth  opened  to  incoherent  speech. 

**And  now,  senor,"  Colonel  Urgo  continued 
blandly,  **  unfortunately  you  will  be  locked  up 
incommunicado. ' ' 

Five  minutes  later  Grant  Hickman,,  behind  a 
steel-studded  door  in  a  Mexican  jail,  was  as 
wholly  out  of  the  world  as  a  man  in  a  sunken 
submarine. 


[64] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   GAEDEN    OF    SOLITUDE 

r>  ENICIA  O'DONOJU  by  the  side  of  the  big 
'■-'  Papago  Quelele  and  with  the  twin  towns 
on  the  Line  behind  her — ahead  the  unlimned 
immensity  of  the  wilderness — gave  herself  to 
the  exhilaration  of  flight.  For  the  skimming 
and  dipping  of  the  little  car  over  the  wave 
crests  of  the  desert  was  like  the  flight  of  the 
desert  quail,  who  rarely  lifts  himself  above  the 
height  of  the  mesqnite  in  his  unerring  dartings 
from  bush  to  bush.  On  its  partially  deflated 
tires,  provision  against  sand  traps  and  the  ex- 
pansion of  imprisoned  air  under  heat,  the  skele- 
ton thing  reeled  off  its  twenty  miles  an  hour 
with  snortings. 

The  final  incident  at  the  Arizora  station — 
little  Colonel  Urgo  and  his  unceremonious  jet- 
tisoning— left  no  abiding  impression  with  the 
spirited  desert  girl.  His  struttings  and  posings, 
his  humorously  impetuous  wooing,  resumed  at 
the  El  Paso  station  after  the  two  years'  inter- 
ruption of  her  stay  in  the  States,  were  for  her  no 
[65] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

more  than  the  high  stepping  of  some  barnyard 
Lothario.  Benicia,  little  given  to  the  morbid 
business  of  self-analysis,  was  not  sensible  of 
how  exactly  the  dual  strain  of  blood  in  her  had 
reacted  to  Urgo's  advances;  how  it  had  been 
the  swift  thrust  of  Spanish  temper  which  had 
prompted  her  to  resort  to  the  pronged  weapon 
from  her  hair  at  El  Paso  even  as  the  persistent 
Irish  humour  tang  inherent  in  the  O'Donoju 
name  had  flashed  out  in  the  dumping  of  the 
suitor  at  Arizora. 

No,  Hamilcar  Urgo's  dapper  figure  was  as 
evanescent  as  the  mirage,  but  there  was  another 
which  appeared  to  replace  it.  A  man  with  the 
figure  of  an  athlete  and  a  forthright  way  of 
looking  at  one — perhaps  the  least  bit  too  self- 
assured,  perhaps  inviting  rebuke  did  one  but 
feel  in  the  humour  of  rebuking.  One  of  those 
quick-witted  Americans,  ever  ready  on  a  hair 
trigger  of  resourcefulness  yet  seeming  to  carry 
a  situation  as  if  no  situation  existed.  Nice  eyes, 
yes.  A  pleasant  laugh,  rich  in  humour.  But 
so  New  Yorkish !  He  thought  the  desert  a  place 
where  no  one  lived  willingly.  Amusing  conceit ! 
And  his  name  was — ?  Ah,  yes,  Hickman — 
Grant  Hickman.  One  would  try  to  remember 
that  name. 

Retrospect  could  not  long  hold  Benicia 's  mind 
[66] 


THE  GAEDEN  OF  SOLITUDE 

against  the  joy  of  the  homing  journey.  For  the 
desert  she  loved  spoke  to  her  a  welcome  long 
dreamed  in  the  stifling  precincts  of  cities.  There 
was  the  sky  she  had  yearned  for,  something  of 
infinite  depths  which  did  not  shut  down  over 
the  earth  like  an  inverted  cup ;  rather  an  impal- 
pable sea  wherein  the  earth  swam  free.  Morn- 
ing gold  still  tinted  it.  And  the  mountains  that 
"rose  sheer  from  the  desert  floor  with  no  lesser 
foothill  heights:  under  the  sun  they  were  blue 
in  the  east  and  where  slant  rays  fell  upon  west- 
ern barriers  a  tawny  strength  of  naked  rock 
clothed  them.  Between  the  feet  of  the  mountain 
stretched  the  level  desert  plain  far  and  far  be- 
yond the  power  of  eye  to  compass;  grey  with 
the  grey  of  saltbush  and  greasewood,  overtones 
of  green  where  the  first  leaves  of  the  mesquite 
and  ironwood  answered  the  call  of  the  spring 
sun. 

Quelele  had  turned  the  machine  onto  a  west- 
ward wending  road  once  the  Line  was  crossed 
at  Sonizona.  A  few  straggling  ranches  near 
the  border  town,  then  the  unsullied  desert. 
Westward  and  southward  sped  the  machine, 
deep  into  the  greatest  stretch  of  unpeopled  wil- 
derness between  the  Barren  Grounds  of  the  Do- 
minion and  Panama. 

The  Desert  of  Altar  lies  there.  From  the 
[67] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Line  south  to  the  Yaqui  River  and  from  the  Gnlf 
of  California,  once  called  the  Sea  of  Cortez, 
eastward  to  the  Sierra  Madre: — here  is  the 
terra  incognita  of  Sonora;  here  is  the  dominion 
of  thirst.  A  territory  large  as  New  England 
and  with  a  population  smaller  than  the  average 
New  England  mill  town.  A  vast  graveyard  of 
vanished  peoples,  who  left  behind  them  moun- 
tains terraced  with  fortifications  laid  in  un- 
broken breastworks  of  porphyry  and  rocks  pic- 
tured with  their  annals  of  life  and  death.  Rain 
comes  only  with  occasional  summer  thunder 
storms  up  from  the  Gulf,  storms  which  wake 
dead  rivers  into  furious  flood.  So  precious  is 
this  water  from  the  sky  that  the  primitive  peo- 
ples weave  mystic  rain  symbols  into  their  bas- 
ketry for  a  fetish,  and  their  songs  are  all  of 
thunderheads  and  croaking  frogs. 

Here  in  the  Desert  of  Altar  the  impossible 
becomes  commonplace.  A  man  caught  in  a  river 
bed  by  the  spearhead  of  a  freshet  drowns  in 
sand  made  mud  and  irresistibly  rushing.  Cat- 
tle drink  no  water  for  months  on  end  but  are 
sustained  by  munching  cactus  whose  spines  can 
penetrate  sole  leather.  In  the  furnace  heat  of 
summer  furious  rain  storms  occur  in  the  higher 
air  but  the  moisture  is  sucked  up  by  the  sun  be- 
fore it  touches  earth.     Gold  lies  scattered  on 

[68] 


THE  GARDEN  OF  SOLITUDE 

the  surface  of  the  desert  and  water  must  be 
mined.  The  desert  kind  slay  after  the  manner 
of  the  ages  but  declare  a  truce  at  the  waterhole. 
Death  of  all  life  is  ever-present,  yet  grant  so 
much  as  a  permanent  trickle  of  the  life-giving 
fluid  and  the  dust  is  covered  with  a  glory  of 
green. 

For  its  devotees  the  desert  holds  mysteries 
potent  beyond  comprehension  of  folk  in  a  softer 
land.  The  venturing  padres  of  an  elder  day 
called  it  the  Hand  of  God;  they  walked  in  the 
hand  of  God  and  were  not  afraid.  Divinity, 
force,  original  cause — whatever  may  be  your 
term  for  that  power  which  jewels  the  grass  with 
dew  and  swings  the  suns  in  their  courses — this 
is  very  close  in  the  desert.  In  great  cities  man 
has  driven  the  Presence  far  from  him  by  his 
silly  rackets  of  steam  and  electricity,  by  his 
farcical  reproductions  of  cliffs  and  pinnacles. 
In  the  Desert  of  Altar  he  walks  in  silence  and 
with  God.  The  very  air  is  kinetic  with  the 
energy  that  brought  forth  life  on  a  cooled 
planet. 

The  desert  had  been  Benicia's  teacher;  had 
moulded  her  spirit  to  its  own  pattern  of  ele- 
mental strength.  Born  the  last  of  the 
0  *Dono jus  in  the  desert  oasis  that  was  the 
ultimate  remnant  of  the  once  kingly  Rancho 
[69] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

del  Eefugio — grant  of  a  Spanish  Philip  to  her 
ancestor — she  had  been  reared  in  the  asperities 
of  the  land,  had  absorbed  into  her  bone  and 
tissue  the  rigours  and  simple  verities  of  a 
wilderness.  Because  there  was  no  son  in  the 
Casa  O'Donoju  and  because,  too,  this  only 
daughter  came  into  the  world  with  the  inherit- 
ance of  a  spirit  impetuous  and  errant  as  a 
desert  bird,  Don  Padraic,  her  father,  gave  over 
all  attempts  at  imposing  on  her  the  straight 
decorum  that  shackles  the  Spanish  maiden  of 
gentle  blood.  With  the  death  of  her  mother 
when  Benicia  was  still  in  short  skirts  came  this 
loosening  of  the  bonds.  Instead  of  growing  to 
maturity  a  shy  creature  who  must  never  quit 
the  sight  of  a  duenna  and  whose  eyes  shall  tell 
no  secrets,  the  girl  warmed  to  a  wonderful 
companionship  with  her  father,  lived  the  life 
of  a  boy. 

Her  flaming  red  hair  bobbed  about  the  fringe 
of  milling  cores  of  wild  cattle  at  the  round-up. 
At  SaJiuaro  feasts  of  the  Papagoes,  Mo  Vopoki 
(Lightning  Hair)  added  her  shrill  soprano  to 
the  chorus  of  the  Frog  Doctor  Song.  She 
learned  where  gold  lay  in  shallow  pockets  and 
winnowed  it  from  the  sands  in  the  Indian 
fashion.  She  brought  home  a  mewing,  spitting 
kitten  she  had  taken  from  a  bobcat's  litter. 

[70] 


THE  GARDEN  OF  SOLITUDE 

Her  doll  was  discarded  for  a  rifle  before  lier 
strength  could  shoulder  it. 

Schooling  came  in  her  father's  library,  filled 
with  books  in  three  languages.  English  and 
music,  the  music  of  the  great  harp,  became  her 
passions.  The  harp  had  been  her  great-grand- 
mother's; Don  Padraic  could  make  the  mesh 
of  strings  sing  with  the  sound  of  rain  on 
flowers.  He  was  her  first  teacher.  Then,  when 
twenty  years  were  hers  and  Don  Padraic 
realized  something  besides  the  wild  desert  life 
was  needed  to  round  out  the  full  beauty  of  his 
daughter's  soul,  he  had  urged  further  studies 
on  the  harp  as  the  excuse  for  Benicia's  two 
years  in  the  cities  of  the  States.  Those  two 
years  had  served  well  to  overlay  upon  the 
rugged  handiwork  of  the  wild  the  softness  and 
subtleties  of  culture. 

Benicia  believed  she  possessed  all  her  father's 
confidences.  So  she  did — all  but  one.  She  did 
not  know  that  when  she  came  into  the  world 
with  tiny  head  furry  in  burning  red  Donna 
Francisca,  her  mother,  had  cried  herself  into 
hysteria  and  Don  Padraic 's  heart  had  gone 
cold.  Nor  was  she  ever  told  that  her  flaming 
hair  marked  her  with  the  finger  of  Nemesis. 

This  day  of  the  return  from  exile  no  premoni- 
tion of  the  inheritance  of  fate  arose  to  disturb 
[71] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  singing  heart  of  the  girl.  She  rattled  on 
to  the  stoical  Papago  at  the  wheel  unending 
questions  concerning  her  father  and  the  most 
humble  of  the  Indian  retainers  living  on  the 
rancherias  about  the  oasis,  Don  Padraic's  fief 
in  the  waste  lands.  She  told  the  credulous 
Quelele  stories  of  the  cities  she  had  seen;  of 
white  men's  wickiups  climbing  as  high  as  the 
hill  of  La  Nariz;  of  water  so  plentiful  that  it 
was  launched  at  a  burning  house  out  of  a  long 
serpent's  mouth;  how  men  lifted  themselves 
above  the  earth  in  machines  like  the  king  condor 
and  flew  hundreds  of  miles  between  sun  and 
sun.  To  all  of  which  big  Quelele,  never  lifting 
his  eyes  from  the  thin  rut  lines  in  the  sand, 
answered  with  a  single  monosyllable  **Hi," 
wherein  was  compounded  all  his  capacity  for 
wonder. 

South  and  west  about  the  skirts  of  the 
Pajarito  they  went,  and  then  into  the  old  road 
up  from  Gaborca,  the  ancient  highway  called 
the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men  which  swings  north 
parallel  with  the  Line,  cutting  the  tails  of 
numerous  ranges  that  are  great  in  Arizona. 
And  so,  when  the  day  was  hardly  more  than 
half  spent,  the  little  car  crawled  to  the  height 
called  the  Nose  of  the  Devil,  and  Benicia  saw 
below  her  land  of  desire. 

[72] 


THE  GARDEN  OF  SOLITUDE 

Fists  of  the  mountains  grudgingly  opened  out 
to  permit  a  broad  basin  running  from  east  to 
west,  and  there  against  the  savage  baldness  of 
sentinel  ranges  showed  a  ribbon  of  green. 
Green  of  precious  gems  it  was.  So  vivid  in  the 
setting  of  the  drought  land.  So  cyclonic  its 
assault  of  colour  against  the  eye  inured  to  the 
duns  and  greys  of  a  hundred  miles  of  parched 
terrain.  And  in  the  midst  of  the  oasis  the 
shining  white  dot,  which  was  the  house  of  the 
O'Donoju;  of  Benicia's  father  and  his  fathers 
before  him  back  to  the  day  of  a  royal  favour- 
ite baptized  Michael  O'Donohue.  The  Casa 
0  'Donoju  in  El  Jardin  de  Soledad — ^the  Garden 
of  Solitude. 

Indian  women,  in  skirts  of  orange  and  cerise 
and  with  gay  mantles  over  their  sleek  hair, 
lined  the  way  to  the  avenue  of  royal  date  palms 
which  led  from  the  bridge  over  the  Rio  Dulce 
straight  to  the  white  single-story  house  of 
'dobe,  heavy  walled  and  loopholed  like  a  fort. 
They  waved  and  sent  shouts  of  welcome  to  the 
mistress  of  the  casa  as  she  passed. 

Benicia  knew  her  father  would  not  be  outside 
the  house  to  greet  her;  their  love  was  not  for 
the  servants  to  see.  Rather  he  would  be  wait- 
ing in  their  own  trysting  place,  the  place  where 
he  had  given  her  farewell  two  years  before.  The 

[73] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

girl  leaped  from  the  car  before  the  heavy 
studded  oak  door  breaking  the  solid  white  front 
of  the  house  at  its  centre.  It  was  opened  to 
her  by  old  'Cepcion,  feminine  major  domo  of 
the  household  servants.  Benicia  paused  to  give 
the  parchment  cheeks  a  kiss,  then  she  danced 
down  a  flagged  hall  to  the  flare  of  green  mark- 
ing the  patio  garden  in  the  centre  of  the  house. 

Here  was  a  place  of  beauty  and  a  fragrant 
cave  of  coolness — the  very  secret  heart  of  the 
Garden  of  Solitude.  Open  to  the  sky  and  with 
cloistered  dimness  of  the  four  sides  of  the  house 
all  about,  the  patio  was  a  tiny  jungle  of  climb- 
ing things,  all  green  and  riotous  blossoms.  A 
stately  date  palm  reigned  in  the  centre  behind 
the  little  basin  of  the  fountain;  curtains  of 
purple  bougainvillea  draped  themselves  down 
its  shaggy  ribs;  lavender  water-hyacinths 
sailed  their  little  barques  in  the  pool;  gerani- 
ums flamed  in  living  fire  against  the  pillars  of 
the  arcades. 

There  in  the  garden  waited  a  man  all  in 
white.  Snow  white  his  heavy  hair  and  beard, 
though  the  life  in  his  deep-set  eyes  and  the 
vigorous  set  of  his  shoulders  belied  age ;  white 
were  his  thin  garments  of  silk  and  flannel. 

He  caught  the  flash  of  a  red  head  through 
[74] 


THE  GARDEN  OF  SOLITUDE 

the  greenery,  saw  an  eager,  breathless  face 
turned  qnestioningly. 

**  'Nicia,  heart  of  my  heart — !" 

Then  she  ran  to  him,  paused  just  an  instant 
to  lift  swift  fingers  under  his  chin  and  tilt  his 
head.  Their  eyes  measured  each  the  love  that 
welled  brimming  in  the  souPs  windows.  Then 
the  father  drew  his  daughter  close  to  his  heart 
and  his  lips  brushed  her  forehead. 

**  'Nicia,  my  strong  one,  your  father  has 
great  need  of  you." 


[75] 


CHAPTER  VI 

JUSTICE 

np  HE  Mexican  theory  of  the  treatment  of 
-■■  prisoners,  their  status  before  the  law  and 
the  responsibilities  of  government  toward  them 
has  few  complexities  and  knows  no  interference 
on  the  part  of  prisoners'  welfare  leagues  or 
humanitarian  congresses.  When  a  man  is  ar- 
rested south  of  the  Line  he  straightway  ceases 
to  be  enumerated  among  the  living;  if,  haply, 
he  reappears  in  the  course  of  weeks  or  years 
his  family  looks  upon  the  prodigy  in  the  light 
of  a  resurrection.  Such  resurrections  do  not 
occur  often  enough  to  dull  the  edge  of  the 
popular  interest  attending  them.  There  are 
several  dim  roads,  peculiarly  Mexican,  down 
which  a  prisoner  may  march  to  oblivion,  with 
no  record  of  his  expunction  left  behind.  Offi- 
cials with  easy  consciences  find  these  extra- 
legal methods  of  clearing  the  docket  handy  and 
expeditious. 

Grant  Hickman,  new  to  the  Border  and  ut- 
terly ignorant  of  customs  and  manners  in  the 
republic  of  poco  tiempo,  necessarily  could  not 

[76] 


JUSTICE 

possess  a  background  of  sinister  knowledge 
against  which  to  build  doubts  of  his  immediate 
future  when  he  found  himself  locked  in  a  cell. 
He  was  in  darkness  deep  as  Jonah's.  He  ached 
from  his  scalp  to  his  toes.  A  gingerly  groping 
hand  applied  to  various  parts  of  his  body  took 
stock  of  the  exterior  costs  of  that  healthy  fight 
in  the  gambling  palace.  The  heat  of  battle  was 
still  on  him.  He  recalled  how  nobly  the  big 
Arizonan  swung  his  chair  from  the  vantage  of 
the  crap  table;  what  a  virile  call  to  battle  was 
the  stranger's  ^^Ride  'em,  Noo  Yawker!" 

As  for  Colonel  Urgo's  clumsy  frame-up — ^the 
handful  of  lead  dollars  in  his  pocket  to  prompt 
arrest  for  counterfeiting — Grant  dismissed  the 
trick  as  childish  spite.  When  he  appeared  be- 
fore a  judge  in  the  morning  he  could  easily 
prove  that  the  only  Mexican  money  he  pos- 
sessed was  that  given  him  in  change  by  the 
fat  Chinaman  and  what  he  had  taken  in  across 
the  baize.  Some  tool  of  the  vengeful  little 
wooef  of  Benicia  had  ** salted"  him  during  the 
progress  of  the  game. 

But  when  morning  light  through  a  four-inch 
slit  in  the  wall  roused  him  from  a  restless 
sleep  long  hours  of  doubt  were  ushered  in. 
Came  a  jailer  with  dry  tortillas  and  water  but 
no  summons  to  appear  befo-re  a  magistrate. 
[77] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Three  tortillas — clammy  rolled  cakes  of  meal 
tasting  strongly  of  a  cook's  carelessness  in 
matters  of  excluding  the  unessential — were  the 
sum  of  his  receipts  from  the  outside  world  that 
day.  The  jailer,  who  had  the  features  of  a 
bandit,  merely  grunted  a  **no  sabe"  at  the  vol- 
ley of  questions  the  prisoner  launched  at  him 
during  the  minute  he  was  in  the  cell. 

Those  hours  of  solitude  in  the  six-by-ten  box 
of  stone  gave  opportunity  for  much  thinking. 
Little  by  little  it  was  borne  in  on  Grant  how 
completely  he  was  a  victim  of  whatever  spite 
Colonel  Urgo  might  care  to  devise;  and  recol- 
lection of  his  smiling  face  seen  in  the  prison 
office  the  night  before — thin  lips  parted  over 
teeth  in  a  ferret's  grin — confirmed  the  assump- 
tion that  at  devising  mischief  Colonel  Urgo 
would  be  hampered  by  no  lack  of  ingenuity. 

Grant  weighed  the  hope  of  aid  from  the  other 
end  of  the  town  across  the  Border  fence.  Bim 
Bagley,  the  only  friend  he  had  in  all  the  South- 
west, was  still  out  of  town  and  would  not  be 
back  until  the  morrow.  Doc  Stooder — small 
chance!  The  worthy  doctor  was  velvet  drunk 
when  he  received  Grant  in  his  office;  for  rea- 
sons which  only  his  satiric  humour  could  ex- 
plain he  had  elected  to  consider  his  visitor  an 
impostor.  Little  chance  that  Doc  Stooder  would 

[78] 


JUSTICE 

pay  him  a  thonglit  until  Bagley  returned  and 
inquired  of  his  whereabouts.  Eemained  just 
the  cobweb  contingency  that  the  Arizonan  who 
had  fought  beside  him  had  escaped  the  clutches 
of  the  rurales;  Grant  was  certain  the  big  fel- 
low's simple  loyalty  to  a  fellow  countryman 
would  prompt  him  to  set  going  some  kind  of 
inquiry  from  across  the  Line. 

Night  came,  with  it  three  more  tortillas  and 
a  bowl  of  came  seasoned  with  chili  sufficient 
to  burn  the  gullet  of  a  bronze  image.  Then, 
several  hours  after  the  scant  meal  had  been 
shoved  in  to  him,  the  bandit  jailer  opened  his 
cell  door  and  motioned  him  to  step  into  the 
corridor.  Two  men  with  rifles  were  waiting 
there;  they  stepped  to  his  side  and  marched 
him  off  between  them. 

Down  a  flight  of  steps,  through  a  courtyard 
heavy  with  shadows,  then  up  tortuous  stairs  to 
a  door  beneath  a  dim  electric  globe.  The  door 
opened  from  within,  and  Grant  found  himself 
in  a  chamber  which  might  have  passed  as  a 
courtroom.  At  its  far  end  on  a  raised  dais  was 
a  long  desk  lighted  from  above,  three  men  sit- 
ting behind  it.  A  sort  of  wooden  cage  stood 
apart  on  a  platform  by  itself.  Six  men  with 
serapes  over  their  shoulders  and  rifles  hanging 
by  straps  across  the  blanket  stripes  were 
[79] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

slouching  before  the  judges'  dais.  A  black 
headed  peon  crouched  timorously  on  a  seat  to 
the  left  and  behind  the  guards. 

Grant's  escort  halted  him  before  the  judges. 
He  kept  silence,  studying  the  faces  of  the  three. 
Not  pleasant  faces.  A  hardness  of  eye  and  cat- 
like bristle  of  moustachios  over  thin  line  of 
lips  was  common  to  the  trio. 

*^ Grant  'Ickmanl"  challenged  the  man  in  the 
middle. 

Grant  nodded.  His  interrogator  gave  a  sign 
to  one  of  the  rurales.  The  latter  turned  to  the 
peon  on  the  bench,  dragged  him  to  his  feet  and 
hustled  him  to  the  cage-like  affair  to  the  left 
of  the  dais,  evidently  a  witness  box.  The  little 
fellow's  head  hardly  showed  above  the  top  rail 
that  fenced  him  in ;  his  eyes  were  all  whites. 

The  examining  judge  jerked  a  thumb  toward 
Grant  as  he  shaped  a  question  in  Spanish 
for  the  witness.  The  peon  bobbed  his  head 
emphatically.  Anbther  question  and,  *^Si/' 
chirped  the  witness.  Then  a  lengthy  flow  of 
interrogation  prompted  by  reference  to  some 
docier  in  hand. 

'^Si!  Si!"  The  witness  hurried  to  oblige. 
Cat  whiskers  lifted  in  a  smile  as  the  judge 
turned  back  to  Grant. 

**You  unnerstan'?" 

[80] 


JUSTICE 

**I  don't/'  bluntly.  More  twitching  of  the 
spiked  monstachios. 

**Zeese  man,  'oo's  make  confession  of  coun- 
terfeiting and  'oo  ees  to  be  shot  to-day,  says 
'e  sells  you  thirty  pesos  made  with  bad  metal 
— counterfeit.    An' — " 

**He  lies!"  Grant  interrupted. 

^^QuietoT'  The  judge  banged  his  fist  on  the 
desk  and  fixed  the  prisoner  with  a  savage 
glare.  ^'  'E  says,  zeese  man,  'e  meets  with  you 
las'  night  on  Calle  San  Lazar  outside  Crystal 
Palacio  gambling  'ouse  an'  for  ten  veritable 
pesos  'e  gives  to  you  thirty  pesos  of  bad  metal. 
Then"  zeese  man  'e  says  'e  sees  you  enter 
Crystal  Palacio.  What  remark  you  make  for 
zeese  f" 

The  monstrous  farce  of  this  accusation 
numbed  Grant.  Judicial  subornation  fabri- 
cated to  give  colour  to  what  was  already  de- 
termined in  the  minds  of  these  three  puppets. 
As  clearly  as  if  they  were  bearing  on  him  he 
could  see  the  cold,  mocking  eyes  of  Colonel 
Urgo  behind  the  shoulders  of  his  pawns  on  the 
bench.    Perception  of  his  peril  steadied  him. 

**I  demand  a  lawyer  if  I  am  to  be  tried  on 
this  outrageous  charge.     And  I  demand  that 
the  American  consul  in  this  town  be  told  of 
the  accusation  against  me." 
[81] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

The  interrogating  judge  turned  to  Ms  con- 
freres with  a  bland  outspreading  of  the  palms. 
Then  to  Grant : 

**  American  consul  'as  no  business  with  crime 
against  state  of  Mehico.  You  will  'ave  lawyer 
when  you  are  tried  before  court  at  Hermosillo. 
Zeese  court  ees  not  court  of  condemnation. 
Court  of  condemnation  ees  at  Hermosillo. 
Wen  you  arrive  there,  w'ere  you  make  for  a 
start  to-night,  Senor  'Ickman,  you  ask  for 
American  consul  if  you  desire.'' 

**But  you  cannot  send  me  to  this  Hermosillo 
place  without  trial."  Grant  took  a  step  to- 
ward the  bench  in  his  vehemence.  He  was 
roughly  jerked  back  by  his  guards.  The  inter- 
rogating judge  beamed  on  him. 

**In  Mehico,  Senor  'Ickman,  it  ees  folly  to 
say  *you  cannot.'  Much  ees  possible  in  Mehico. 
To-night  prisoners  make  start  for  Hermosillo. 
You  go  weeth  them." 

He  nodded  to  Grant's  guards  and  they  closed 
in  on  him.  He  heard  a  farewell,  **Adios, 
Senor  'Ickman,"  from  the  bench  as  he  was 
rudely  hustled  out  of  the  courtroom. 

An  hour  later  he   stood  with  seven  other 

shadows  in  the  carcel  courtyard.    About  them 

were  the  rurales  with  their  rifles;  four  were 

mounted  on  horseback  and  a  pack  mule,  lightly 

[82] 


JUSTICE 

laden,  slept  on  three  legs  behind  the  horsemen. 
Men  came  with  lanterns  and  heavy  loops  of 
something  which  chinked  metallically  when  it 
was  dropped.  They  j&xed  a  broad  steel  shackle 
on  the  left  wrist  of  each  prisoner  and  linked 
them  all  to  a  bull  chain.  Then  the  door  of  a 
courtyard  swung  inward,  the  mounted  rurales 
closed  in  and  the  eight  chained  men  went  clink- 
ing out  to  the  dark  street. 

A  few  midnight  dawdlers  paused  to  watch  the 
shadowy  procession  stumbling  over  the  cobbles. 
No  word  was  spoken.  The  clink  of  the  horses' 
hoofs,  the  patter-patter  of  the  short-legged 
pack  mule  and  the  metallic  whisperings  of  the 
chain  fitted  into  a  measured  cadence.  Despite 
the  presence  of  the  pack  mule.  Grant  first  had 
thought  the  journey  would  be  a  short  one,  end- 
ing at  the  railroad  station.  But  after  fifteen 
minutes '  marching  no  railroad  line  was  in  sight 
and  the  houses  began  to  be  scattered.  Suddenly 
houses  ceased ;  nothing  but  the  hump-shouldered 
shapes  of  mountains  about ;  clear  burning  stars 
and  ahead  a  dim  ribbon  of  road  leading  out 
into  the  desert. 

To  Hermosillo,  a  town  unheard  of  and  at  a 
distance  unknown — across  the  desert  to  Her- 
mosillo afoot  and  chained  in  line  with  seven 
men.  In  the  slim  rifle  barrels  so  carelessly 
[83] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

slung  under  shadows  of  sombreros  was  the 
sullen  emblem  of  that  unwritten  law  of  Mexico 
which  stills  so  many  accusing  mouths:  ley  de 
fuga — law  of  flight. 

Out  into  the  desert  of  Altar  marched  the 
American,  whose  name  appeared  only  upon  a 
secret  cachet  in  the  hands  of  the  puppet  judges 
— a  man  gone,  as  a  German  once  put  it,  *  *  with- 
out trace/' 


[84] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    CHAIN    GANG 

**1I>UT,  Doc,  I  tell  you  you're  crazy!  How 
-■-^  could  a  tenderfoot  like  Hickman  just  in 
town  from  the  East  breeze  across  the  Line  and 
get  into  a  jam  the  first  night  he's  in  town — 
drop  out  of  sight  completely?" 

Bim  Bagley,  back  in  Arizora  and  distracted 
by  the  unexplained  mystery  of  his  pal's  name 
on  the  hotel  register,  his  pal's  suitcase  in  a 
hotel  room  but  no  more  material  trace  of  Grant 
Hickman,  was  knee  to  knee  with  Dr.  Stooder 
in  the  latter 's  office.  The  Doc  made  judicious 
answer : 

**Well,  son,  Jed  Hawkins'  specifications  of 
the  gringo  he  fought  with  atop  the  crap  table 
in  the  Palacio  tallies  pretty  closely  with  the 
young  man  as  I  saw  him  in  my  office  earlier  in 
the  day.  But  here's  the  funny  thing:  the 
rurales  let  Hawkins  go  even  though  he  laid  out 
two  of  'em  with  a  chair.  Let  that  fightin'  wild- 
cat go  and  trotted  this  fellah  Hickman  off  to 
the  car  eel.  That's  what  gets  me."  Doc  Stooder 
[85] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

gave  his  decision  with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  He 
jack-knifed  his  bony  knees  up  to  his  chin  and 
waited  the  younger  man's  comment. 

**But  what  did  Hawkins  say  started  the  big 
row!''  Bim's  long  face,  all  criss-crossed  with 
the  wind  wrinkles  that  make  desert  men  look 
older  than  their  years,  gave  a  vivid  picture  of 
his  distress,  of  his  eagerness  to  seize  upon  any 
detail  that  might  point  a  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery. Doc  Stooder  recited  with  picturesque  de- 
tail Jed  Hawkins'  story  of  the  battle  in  the 
gambling  palace  as  the  redoubtable  Jed  him- 
self had  narrated  it  in  the  Border  Delight  pool 
hall  before  returning  to  his  ranch  at  Dos 
Cabezas. 

**That  give  me  a  clue,"  he  concluded,  **so  I 
laid  my  pipe  lines  an'  I'm  looking  for  to  tap 
a  well  any  time  now." 

Doc  Stooder 's  pipe  lines — of  information,  if 
not  of  wealth — were  the  most  productive  of  any 
along  the  Border.  He  was  one  of  those  rare 
white  men  in  the  Southwestern  country  who 
enjoyed  the  unreserved  respect  if  not  the  love 
of  the  Mexican  population,  among  whom  nine- 
tenths  of 'his  practice  extended.  Though  he 
bawled  at  his  patients,  stricken  dumb  with 
terror  of  their  ailments,  though  he  cursed  the 
women  and  manhandled  the  men,  no  poor 
[86] 


THE  CHAIN  GANG 

Mexican's  hovel  of  'dobe  was  too  far  out  in 
the  desert  to  discourage  Doc  Stooder's  night 
prowling  gas-wagon.  Through  dust  storm  and 
withering  heat  this  blasted  jack-pine  of  a  man 
flitted  on  wings  of  gasoline,  with  his  nostrums 
for  dysentery  and  asthma,  his  splints  for 
broken  bones  and  needles  for  knife  thrusts. 

Drunk  he  might  be  half  the  time,  an  indif- 
ferent physician  all  the  time — for  the  Doc  had 
not  been  away  from  the  Border  for  twenty-five 
years  and  never  read  a  medical  magazine.  But 
under  his  hard  rind  of  brutalities  and  cynicisms 
the  Mexicans  and  Indians  had  come  to  discover 
a  deep  sympathy  with  their  homely  tragedies, 
their  patient  sufferings.  Sometimes  they  paid 
him  in  coin ;  more  often  they  paid  him  in  slavish 
fealty  the  coin  of  which  was  information.  Of 
gold  strikes  in  the  far  hills ;  of  shrewd  business 
deals  to  be  wrought  through  connivance  of 
knavish  officials  across  the  Line ;  even  of  stolen 
jewels  to  be  picked  up  from  a  pawnbroker: — 
these  the  flow  of  Doc  Stooder's  pipe  lines.  No 
man  on  the  Border  for  a  hundred  miles  each 
way  knew  so  much  of  the  scrapple  of  life  as 
A.  Stooder,  M.D. 

**I'm  lookin'  to  hear  of  a  woman,''  the  Doc 
drawlingly  resumed,  a  wry  smile  greeting 
Bim's  gesture  of  negation.  **Yep,  son,  when 
[87] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

any  likely  lookin'  young  fellah  along  the 
Border  drops  outa  sight — and  this  Hickman 
fellah's  got  an  eye  with  him  for  all  his  Noo 
Tawk  bridle  trimmin's — they's  a  swish  of 
skirts  comes  to  my  ears.  Or'' — ^he  sat  up  sud- 
denly and  threw  a  bony  finger  at  Bim — **or  he 
knows  somethin'  about  why  he's  come  out  here 
an'  went  an'  babbled." 

**Rot!"  Bim's  grey  eyes  were  clouded  with 
anger.  *^I  told  you  he  doesn't  know  why  we 
got  him  out  here — and  he's  not  the  babbling 
kind  if  he  did." 

**Well,  it  sizes  up  thisaway,"  the  Doc  con- 
tinued, ignoring  the  other's  flash  of  temper. 
**They's  one  man  down  in  Sonora  who  knows 
all  we  know  about  the  Lost  Mission  and  like's 
not  a  dam'  sight  more.  That's  this  proud  old 
don  who  lives  down  in  the  Garden  of  Solitude 
with  his  red-headed  daughter — name's  Padraic 
O'Donoju,  if  I  haven't  told  you  that  before. 
If  he  ever  got  a  line  on  the  fact  we've  asked  a 
Noo  Yawk  engineer  to  come  out  here  to  Arizora 
he'd  put  two  an'  two  together  an'  figure  we're 
after  that  Four  Evangelists  church  his  ances- 
tors built.  You  know  he's  sorta  king  of  all  the 
Papagoes  in  Altar  and — " 

^*How  about  your  Papago  who's  going  to 
lead  us  to  the  Mission?"  Bim  interrupted.    **If 

[88] 


THE  CHAIN  GANG 

there's  any  leak  likely  as  not  it's  through  him." 

Stooder's  great  head  wagged  slowly;  a  grin 
tilted  the  rabbit's  tail  tuft  under  his  lip  until 
it  stood  out  a  quizzical  interrogation  point. 

**No,  son;  no.  I  got  that  Papago  brother 
where  he  thinks  all  I  got  to  do  is  crook  my  little 
finger  an'  his  wife  passes  away  with  asthma 
overnight.    We  can  rely — " 

A  timid  knock  on  the  office  door  giving  onto 
the  hall.  The  Doc  bellowed  a  command  to 
enter.  A  wizened  Mexican  peon  whose  left  arm 
was  a  stump  sidled  quickly  through  the  door- 
way and  stood  bowing,  shaggy  head  uncovered. 
He  cast  a  quick  glance  at  Bagley,  then  to  the 
doctor  for  reassurance. 

'*Go  ahead,  Angel — shoot!"  commanded 
Stooder. 

*^Senor,  I  hear  from  Jesus  Ruiz,  'e's  cousin 
to  me  an'  rurale  at  the  car  eel;  Jesus  Ruiz  'e 
says  the  gringo  arrest'  at  Palacio  goes  last 
night  in  chain  gang  for  Hermosillo — " 

Bim  leaped  to  his  feet  with  an  oath.  The 
peon's  eyes  were  on  Doc  Stooder  in  an  hyp- 
notic stare. 

*'The  gringo  goes  in  chain  gang  for  Hermo- 
sillo, but  my  cousin  Jesus  Ruiz  'e  says  that 
gringo  mos'  like  never  arrive." 


[89] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

That  hour  when  Doc  Stooder's  pipe  line  be- 
gan spouting  information  Grant  Hickman  was 
discovering  deep  down  within  him  an  unguessed 
hardiness  of  spirit.  A  trial  was  on  him,  a  test 
of  his  moral  fibre  no  less  than  of  his  physical 
powers.  At  the  end  of  twelve  hours'  steady 
plodding  across  the  desert  he  was  coming  into 
his  second  wind.  Every  effort  a  devilish  in- 
genuity could  contrive  had  been  tried  out  by 
the  four  rurales,  his  guards,  in  their  common 
endeavour  to  break  down  this  gringo's  fighting 
morale.  The  single  result  was  a  fixed  grin  on 
features  smeared  with  dried  blood  and  sweat 
— a  challenge  provoking  the  Mexicans  to  fresh 
barbarities. 

During  the  first  dark  hours  of  the  march 
Grant  had  nursed  the  hope  that  at  some  point 
outside  of  town  he  and  his  fellow  prisoners 
would  be  brought  to  a  railroad  station  to  await 
the  coming  of  a  train.  He  could  not  conceive  a 
reason  for  transferring  prisoners  afoot  when  a 
railroad  would  serve.  But  with  the  coming  of 
the  dawn  and  the  lifting  of  the  dark  from  an 
empty  land  not  even  a  telegraph  pole  raised 
above  the  scrub  to  point  fulfilment  of  his  hope. 
Just  the  dry  ribbon  of  road  stretching  ahead 
and  empty  speculation  as  to  the  number  of 
days  or  hours  which  must  intervene  between 
[90] 


THE  CHAIN  GANG 

present  misery  and  journey's  end.  Grant  never 
had  heard  the  name  Hermosillo  until  it  was 
spoken  by  the  examining  judge  the  night  be- 
fore; he  did  not  know  whether  the  town  was 
just  over  the  horizon  or  half  way  to  Panama. 

Morning  brought  him  the  chance  to  study  the 
men  chained  with  him  who,  during  the  night 
hours,  had  been  just  so  many  disembodied 
shadows  marching  in  a  nightmare.  The  one 
ahead  of  him  was  a  shrivelled  little  Chinaman, 
whose  legs  were  so  short  he  was  forced  to  a 
skipping  step  to  keep  slack  on  his  segment  of 
the  chain ;  his  breath  came  in  asthmatic  pipings 
and  wheezes  like  the  noise  of  a  leaky  valve  in 
some  midget  engine.  Behind  him  was  a  giant 
of  an  Indian,  almost  the  colour  of  teak.  With 
■a  timed  regularity  this  Indian  spat  noisily  all 
through  the  dark  hours  and  until  the  sun  rose 
to  dry  up  his  throat.  The  rest  were  in  char- 
acter with  Grant's  nearer  companions — just 
flotsam. 

The  guards  were  typical  of  their  class; 
Mexican  peons  brutalized  even  beyond  the  in- 
heritance of  their  mixed  bloods  by  their  small 
taste  of  power.  The  quarter-blood  Indian 
south  of  the  Line,  whose  ancestry  is  devious 
as  his  own  starved  dog's,  knows  but  a  single 
law  of  life  and  that  the  law  of  fear.  Lift  him 
[91] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

by  ever  so  little  from  the  station  of  the  one 
who  fears  to  that  of  the  one  to  be  feared  and 
he  has  no  counterpart  for  studied  cruelty  any- 
where on  earth. 

The  one  who  rode  to  the  right  of  the  line  in 
which  Grant's  position  was  fourth  from  the 
front,  had  commenced  with  the  dawn  a  calcu- 
lated campaign  of  nasty  tortures.  He  would 
suddenly  swerve  his  horse  against  Grant, 
threatening  his  feet  with  trampling  hoofs.  He 
held  his  lighted  cigarette  low  at  his  side  with 
elaborate  air  of  carelessness,  then  pressed  in 
close  for  the  burning  tip  to  eat  through  the 
white  man's  shirt.  Once  he  aimed  a  vicious 
backward  kick  at  his  victim;  his  heavy  spur 
left  a  line  of  red  through  the  torn  sleeve  from 
elbow  to  shoulder. 

At  each  of  these  refinements  of  humour  the 
rurale's  snickering  laughter  was  met  by  the 
American's  wordless  grin.  Just  a  tense  spread- 
ing of  lips  and  baring  of  teeth,  which  carried 
to  the  guard's  savage  perception  a  taunt  and 
a  threat.  Always  in  Grant's  twisted  grin  lay 
the  unspoken  promise  of  retribution  once  the 
odds  against  him  were  lightened. 

The  desert  under  sun  at  the  meridian  flexed 
its  harsh  hand  to  pinch  the  crawling  caterpillar 
of  chained  men.     Heat  waves  made   all  the 
[921 


THE  CHAIN  GANa 

ragged  summits  of  the  Sierras  pulsate.  A  dust 
tasting  of  desert  salts  spread  a  low  cloud  about 
the  marching  column.  Thirst  that  was  a  poig- 
nant agony  was  made  all  the  more  unendurable 
by  the  tactics  of  the  guards.  From  time  to 
time  one  of  them  would  unhitch  a  canteen  from 
the  pack  mule's  burden  and  in  the  sight  of  the 
eight  helpless  sufferers  tilt  his  head  and  guzzle 
noisily.  Even  he  would  allow  some  of  the 
water  to  slop  from  his  mouth  and  be  wasted 
in  the  sand. 

When  the  little  Chinaman  marching  before 
Grant  sighed  and  dropped,  the  line  was  halted 
for  half  an  hour.  First  the  yellow  man  was 
revived,  then  the  canteen  at  which  he  had 
sucked  so  noisily  was  passed  down  the  line  to 
the  rest  of  the  prisoners.  It  was  their  first 
taste  of  water  since  the  prison  gate  was  passed. 
After  the  canteen  circulated,  black  strips  of 
jerked  beef,  sharp  with  salt,  were  distributed. 
Grant  never  had  seen  the  **  jerky"  of  the  South- 
west; the  leathery  stuff  would  have  revolted 
him  did  his  body  not  cry  out  for  food.  He  tore 
at  the  tough  substance  after  the  manner  of  his 
fellows  while  the  guards  brewed  themselves 
some  more  complicated  mess  over  a  fire  of 
greasewood  sticks. 

Then  the  march  again.  Dragging  hour  after 
[93] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

dragging  hour.  Clink-clank  of  the  swinging 
chain.  Pad-pad  of  feet  in  time.  Snuffle  and 
wheeze — snuffle  and  wheeze  of  the  asthmatic 
Chinaman's  breathing.  All  in  an  unvarying 
synchronism  which  tore  at  the  nerves.  All  the 
world — Grant's  world  of  a  great  city — was  re- 
duced to  this  dreadful  monotony  of  movement 
and  sound. 

He  tried  to  think.  Came  to  his  mind  a  pic- 
ture of  his  office  in  the  Manhattan  skyscraper 
— his  desk  with  the  mounted  bit  of  shrapnel 
for  a  paperweight,  its  clear  greeny-white  glass 
top,  the  two  wire  baskets  which  held  his  cor- 
respondence. He  saw  the  squash  court  at  the 
club — men  in  sleeveless  shirts  straining  after 
a  white  ball.  Henry's  bar  in  the  little  side 
street  off  the  Rue  D'Anou  in  Paris;  Henry 
selling  stolen  American  cigarettes  for  five 
times  their  value  at  the  commissary.  St. 
Mihiel  and  the  old  woman  who  knitted  lace. 
Then  the  girl — Benicia  O  'Bono ju.  Grant  called 
to  his  mind  the  vivid  glory  of  her  hair,  the 
trick  of  her  short  upper  lip  in  curling  outward 
like  the  petal  of  a  tea  rose,  a  something  roguish 
always  lurking  deep  down  in  the  warm  pools 
of  her  eyes. 

*  *  Not  Mexican.  We  are  Spanish  folk. ' '  That 
was  her  sharp  reproof  when  he,  blundering,  had 
[94] 


THE  CHAIN  GANG 

asked  her  if  she  was  of  Mexican  blood.  That 
night  on  the  train — it  seemed  a  year  back. 
**Not  Mexican."  Now  he  understood  why  the 
girl  had  corrected  him  so  pointedly.  Thank 
God  she  was  not  of  that  breed! 

Near  dusk  the  line  was  halted  and  one  of 
the  guards  dismounted.  Grant  saw  him  fumble 
in  his  shirt  and  bring  out  a  bright  bit  of  metal, 
saw  him  approach  the  head  of  the  line  and 
tinker  with  the  first  fellow's  wrist  shackle. 
He  heard  a  sharp  intake  of  breath  behind  him 
and,  turning,  caught  the  stamp  of  terror  on  the 
giant  Indian's  face.  Something  was  going  for- 
ward which  he  could  not  comprehend,  something 
to  shake  the  stoicism  of  this  Indian.  Within 
five  minutes  the  steel  band  about  his  wrist  waa 
unlocked  and  he  stood  free  of  the  chain  with 
the  rest  of  the  prisoners.  He  saw  on  the  faces 
of  all  of  them  that  same  terror  mask  the  Indian 
wore. 

The  freed  men  cast  covert  glances  at  the 
guards,  followed  their  every  move  with  cat-like 
slyness.  The  little  Chinaman  began  a  falsetto 
sing-song  under  his  breath,  which  might  have 
been  a  prayer  to  his  protecting  joss.  One  of 
the  guards  turned  in  his  saddle  and  called  some 
jocular  order  to  the  prisoners.  They  moved  on 
in  the  wine-light  of  the  sunset,  falling  precisely 
[95] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT   . 

into  the  line  they  had  held  when  chained,  their 
eyes  vigilant  for  every  move  of  a  hand  on  the 
part  of  the  mounted  men. 

The  rurales  now  carried  their  rifles  swung 
free  across  the  saddles. 

Though  he  could  understand  no  word  of  the 
muttered  scraps  of  speech  passed  between  man 
and  man  behind  him,  the  magnetic  fear  waves 
possessing  all  the  rest  began  to  prompt  Grant 
to  some  comprehension.  The  coming  night — 
dropping  of  the  chain — those  rifles  unslung 
from  shoulders  and  carried  free  across  the  sad- 
dles:— did  these  things  presage  the  near  end 
of  this  farce  of  a  pilgrimage  across  the  desert 
to  a  court? 

Light  now  was  nearly  gone  from  the  western 
sky  and  the  guards  were  riding  farther  away 
from  the  trudging  line,  deliberately  inviting 
some  one  to  offer  himself  for  fair  target  prac- 
tice while  gunsights  still  could  be  seen.  Grant 
faced  the  hazard  squarely.  Certain  he  was  that 
none  of  the  eight  would  see  another  sunrise, 
that  butcher's  work  would  commence  the  minute 
sporting  chances  were  definitively  ignored  by 
the  victims.  He  was  of  no  mind  to  be  the  pas- 
sive party  to  a  hog  killing.  Better  a  quick 
dash — a  bullet  from  behind — 

The  line  of  men  had  just  emerged  from  an 
[96] 


THE  CHAIN  GANG 

arroyo  with  almost  perpendicular  sides;  the 
bed  of  the  dry  stream  was  thick  with  shadow. 
Grant  leaped  from  line  and  ran  straight  for 
the  guard  who  rode  between  himself  and  the 
course  of  the  stream.  Almost  at  his  stirrup 
he  swerved  and  cut  under  the  horse's  rump. 

Shouts.  A  shot  gone  wild.  Grant,  zigzag- 
ging, was  at  the  brink  of  the  arroyo.  Two  shots 
almost  as  one.  A  lance  of  fire  through  his 
shoulder.  Up  went  his  arms  and  he  plunged 
headlong  into  the  gulf  of  blackness. 


[97] 


CHAPTER  Vm 

THE  HEABT  OF  BENICIA 

THE  Desert  of  Altar  is  transcendence  of 
silence.  From  the  savage  Growler  range 
in  Arizona  south  to  the  obsidian  bastions  of 
Pinacate,  by  the  dead  Gulf,  is  space  to  crowd 
five  million  people  with  their  tumult  of  cities, 
their  crash  of  machines,  hoot  of  locomotives 
and  shriek  of  steel  under  stress.  Yet  in  all  this 
blank  waste  not  a  sound. 

The  chirp  of  the  wren  from  her  hole  in  the 
sahuaro  carries  not  even  so  far  as  the  watch- 
ing hawk  on  nearby  skeleton  ocatilla  stalk. 
The  meat  cry  of  the  prowling  cat  in  the  moun- 
tains where  the  wild  sheep  range  is  swallowed 
in  the  muffling  depths  of  the  canyon  under  her 
feet.  Thin  air  seems  too  tenuous  to  conduct 
sound  waves.  Creatures  of  the  wild  lands  move 
mute  under  the  oppression  of  unbounded  space. 

Yet  nowhere  does  rumour  fly  swifter  than 

here  in  this  vacant  land.     Comes  a  strange 

prowler  to  the  waterholes  of  Tinajas  Altas, 

and  the  antelope  fifty  miles  away  know  the 

[98] 


THE  HEART  OF  BENICIA 

news  and  seek  the  hidden  springs  at  Bates' 
Wells.  A  Papago  three  days*  journey  from 
the  nearest  rancheria  stumbles  onto  hoof- 
prints  of  six  horses  away  over  where  tidewater 
climbs  into  the  delta  of  the  Colorado,  and  he 
turns  back  to  carry  report  of  revolution  in 
Baja  California.  Strange  signs  tell  their  tales 
from  the  sands ;  the  arrangement  of  little  sticks 
conveys  whole  chapters  of  information  to  the 
wayfarer.  When  man  meets  man,  be  he  white, 
brown  or  copper  coloured,  news  is  a  torch  to 
be  passed  on  to  a  new  hand.  Nothing  can  be 
long  a  secret.    The  latent  must  out. 

Even  as  the  worthy  Doc  Stooder  in  his 
shabby  office  at  Arizora  had  a  never-ending 
messenger  service  from  all  the  Border  and  the 
lands  beyond,  carrying  scraps  of  oblique  news, 
another  far  distant  in  the  Garden  of  Solitude 
enjoyed  the  same  intelligence.  This  was  Don 
Padraic  O'Donoju,  last  of  the  line  of  masters 
over  the  once-great  principality  of  El  Rancho 
del  Refugio.  Though  a  hundred  years  of  revo- 
lution, of  uproar  and  the  teetering  of  political 
balances  in  the  more  populous  Mexico  to  south 
and  east  of  him  had  left  to  the  last  don  of  the 
O'Donojus  little  more  territory  than  that  com- 
prised in  the  oasis  of  the  Garden,  still  he  had 
cattle  enough  to  be  counted  a  rich  man  and  six 
[99] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

generations  of  custom  gave  Mm  unbroken  sway 
over  the  Papagoes.  From  the  Sand  People  of 
the  Gulf  away  up  to  the  San  Xavier  rancheria 
at  Tucson  extended  the  secret  kingdom  of  Don 
Padraic's  influence.  His  only  tithes  were  those 
of  loyalty  and  the  bringing  of  report.  What 
the  Papagoes  thought  Don  Padraic  should 
know,  that  he  knew  as  speedily  as  word  could 
be  passed. 

So,  a  week  after  Benicia  had  returned  to  the 
Oasa  O'Donoju,  came  a  runner  from  the  east- 
ward— one  sent  by  El  Doctor  Coyote  Belly, 
whose  winter  house  was  at  Babinioqui  near  the 
railroad.  The  runner  had  big  news.  El  Doctor, 
known. all  over  the  Desert  of  Altar  because  of 
his  reputed  skill  at  curing  hydrophobia  and  the 
bite  of  the  sidewinder,  had  a  sick  white  man — 
a  seriously  wounded  white  man  who  might  be 
an  American — in  his  house  at  Babinioqui  and 
he  asked  Don  Padraic  what  he  should  do  with 
this  man. 

El  Doctor  was  returning  from  the  Medicine 
Cave  of  Pinacate — this  was  the  runner's  tale — 
when  on  the  road  that  runs  from  Sonizona  to 
Hermosillo  he  found  seven  dead  men;  dead 
men  with  the  marks  of  fetters  on  their  left 
wrists.  A  little  beyond  he  found  still  another; 
this  one,  lying  in  an  arroyo,  had  been  shot 
[100] 


THE  HEAET  OF  BENICIA 

through  the  shoulder  from  hehind  and  he  still 
lived.  El  Doctor  had  tied  the  living  man  to  his 
burro  and  taken  him  to  his  winter  house  at 
Bahinioqui,  where  he  had  treated  him  with  the 
most  powerful  herbs  and  had  massaged  the 
wound  with  the  lizard  image.  The  wounded 
white  man  would  live.  Coyote  Belly  did  not 
wish  to  turn  him  over  to  the  Mexicans,  for  he 
was  a  victim  of  ley  de  fuga  and  the  Mexicans 
undoubtedly  would  shoot  him  again. 

Don  Padraic,  whose  charity  was  wider  than 
his  acres,  made  his  decision  instantly.  He 
ordered  Quelele  to  go,  with  the  runner  to  guide 
him  to  El  Doctor's  house,  in  the  little  desert 
car  and  to  fetch  the  white  man  to  the  Garden 
of  Solitude  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  be 
moved.  It  was  best,  the  master  instructed, 
that  Quelele  travel  in  the  night,  returning  with 
the  wounded  man,  and  tell  no  one  of  the  object 
of  his  mission. 

The  big  Indian  stocked  the  car  with  gasoline 
from  the  tank  behind  the  master's  house — a 
reservoir  filled  monthly  from  drums  brought 
by  ox  cart  from  the  distant  railroad  point — 
strapped  canteens  and  oil  containers  on  his 
running  boards  and  was  off.  Don  Padraic  said 
nothing  of  the  incident  to  his  daughter. 

That  night  Don  Padraic  and  Benicia  sat  in 
[101] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

the  candlelight  of  the  big  salon  or  living  room 
which  filled  the  space  of  one  quadrangle  off  the 
patio.  In  all  Sonora  there  was  no  counterpart 
of  this  chamber  of  mellowed  antiquities,  the 
collection  of  generations  of  the  0  ^Dono ju.  Low 
ceiled  and  with  crossing  beams  of  oak,  whereon 
the  marks  of  the  hewer's  adze  showed  like 
waves;  walls  hung  with  tapestries  between  the 
heavy  frames  of  portraits  of  grandees  and 
their  ladies  of  forgotten  days ;  a  great  fireplace 
wherein  a  man  could  stand  upright,  with  its 
hand-wrought  andirons  and  heavy  crane  snank ; 
floor  almost  black  from  a  hundred  years  of 
polishing  and  with  the  skins  of  animals  floating 
there  like  so  many  islands : — ^here  was  a  magic 
bit  of  old  Spain  lifted  overseas  to  find  root  in 
the  heart  of  the  desert. 

Benicia,  in  a  gown  of  rippling  lines  which  left 
her  strong  young  arms  bare  to  the  shoulder, 
was  seated  behind  the  great  golden  span  of  her 
harp.  Candlelight  falling  across  her  shoulders 
made  ivory  the  flesh  of  her  bare  arms  as  they 
moved  rhythmically  back  and  forth  over  the 
wilderness  of  strings.  She  was  playing  the 
Volga  Boatsong,  a  peasant  melody  whose 
minors  rose  and  fell  to  the  sweep  of  oars.  As 
the  girl  gave  her  heart  to  the  music,  the  thrum- 
ming strings  wove  a  picture  of  some  barbaric 
[102] 


THE  HEAET  OF  BENICIA 

steppe  coming  down  to  a  sluggish  river;  boat- 
men chanting  at  the  sweeps.  The  ancient  room 
was  a-thrill  with  resonance. 

She  finished  with  just  a  breath  of  melody,  the 
song  of  the  boatmen  dying  in  the  distance.  Her 
eyes  fell  on  the  face  of  her  father ;  it  was  deeply 
etched  by  the  play  of  flames  from  the  mesquite 
logs  in  the  fireplace.  Always  he  sat  this  way, 
moveless  before  the  fire,  when  she  played  on 
the  great  harp  o'  nights,  freeing  his  soul  to 
drink  in  the  melodies;  but  to  Benicia's  under- 
standing eyes  appeared  now  the  semblance  of 
a  deeper  shadow  not  of  the  firelight.  She 
softly  left  the  instrument  and  stole  over  to 
nestle  herself  on  the  broad  chair  wing,  with  her 
coppery  head  laid  against  the  snow  white  one. 

^'PobreciW — this  was  her  pet  word  carried 
through  the  years  from  childhood — ^^Pohrecito, 
thy  face  is  as  grave  as  the  owPs.  Some  secret? 
Eemember,  there  are  no  secrets  between  us  two 
— no  worry  which  the  other  does  not  share.'* 

Her  coaxing  hand  played  through  the  heavy 
mane  of  hair ;  her  cheek  was  against  his.  Don 
Padraic  slowly  turned  his  head  with  denial  in 
his  eyes ;  but  that  denial  could  not  sustain  the 
accusation  in  the  steady  blue  eyes  of  the  daugh- 
ter. During  the  week  Benicia  had  been  home  a 
secret  doubt  had  steadily  pressed  upon  the  fa- 
[103] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

ther ;  he  had  been  waiting  some  word  from  her 
which  did  not  come.  Now  one  of  his  hands 
stole  up  to  tweak  her  ear — signal  of  surrender. 

'^  'Nicia,  great-heart,  you  have  told  me  all 
about  your  two  years  in  the  cities — ^your  two 
years  of  life  in  the  great  world  outside?  There 
is  something  you  have  withheld?" 

** Nothing,  little  father."  She  gave  him  a 
peck  on  the  forehead.  Don  Padraic  appeared 
to  be  groping  for  his  words. 

*  'You  met — ^many  American  men — ^young  men 
who — ah — ^might  have  been  attracted  by  the 
beauty  of  my  desert  flower?" 

A  ripple  of  soft  laughter  and  the  girl  pressed 
closer  to  him. 

'*Ah,  Pohrecito,  you  forget  that  your  desert 
flower  carries  thorns.  Ask  that  ridiculous 
Hamilcar  ITrgo;  he  has  felt  the  thorns." 

**But" — Don  Padraic  was  not  to  be  put  off 
by  evasions — ''was  there  not  one  whose  heart 
was  conquered  by  a  girl  of  such  fire,  such 
beauty?  Come — come?  These  Americans  are 
not  men  of  ice." 

For  a  minute  Benicia  was  silent.     She  was 
weighing  in  all  sincerity  the  only  shred  of  a 
secret  she  had  in  her  heart ;  testing  it  for  genu- 
ineness as  fairly  as  she  might. 
[104] 


THE  HEAET  OF  BENICIA 

*'Yes,  daddy,  there  were  many  with  bold 
eyes  and  ready  tongues;  but  hardly  had  they 
begun  to  speak  as  friends  or  companions  when 
their  talk  was  all  of  money — how  much  they 
were  planning  to  make  that  year;  the  *big  deaP 
they  were  going  to  put  through.  All  were  like 
this — ^but  one.'' 

*^Ah,"  breathed  Don  Padraic. 

**That  one  I  have  told  you  of,"  she  continued. 
**The  man  on  the  train  who  was  so  masterful 
with  little  Hamilcar.  He  was  not  like  the 
others.  A  man  of  wit — of  sympathies ;  one  who 
seemed  to  have  understanding  of  life — " 

*'And  he— r'  the  father  prompted. 

*^We  said  '  adios'  the  night  before  we  came 
to  Arizora.  I  did  not  see  him  in  the  morning, 
though  he  said  that  was  his  destination." 

They  were  silent  once  more.  Finally  from 
Benicia  a  wraith  of  laughter  on  fluttering  wings 
of  a  sigh: 

**But,  my  grave  old  owl,  why  these  ques- 
tions? Never  before  have  I  seen  my  daddy 
play  the  prying  duenna." 

** Heart  of  mine,  thou  canst  not  be  blind" — 

the  father's  voice  trembled  over  the  intimate 

pronoun.     **I  have  been  thy  father,  mother, 

elder  brother,  all  in  one.    And  selfish — selfish 

[105] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

beyond  measure!  Keeping  thee  cliained  here 
to  an  old  man  in  the  wilderness  when  all  the 
world  of  love  and  life  lies  beyond — " 

**No — ^no,  daddy  mine!''  Tears  dewed  blue 
eyes  as  yearning  arm  strained  him  to  her. 

'* — My  'Nicia  has  her  years  ahead  of  her. 
Her  love  life  must  be  awakened  and  given  free- 
dom to  unfold  like  a  flower  in  a  garden.  Yet  I 
have  permitted  her  to  come  back  to  me  here 
in  the  Garden  of  Solitude  because  I  was  lonely. 
Better  far  that  I  sell  what  we  have  here  and 
take  you  back  to  the  world.  In  these  evil  days 
there  is  no  fit  mate  to  be  found  for  you  in  all 
Sonora.  Hamilcar  Urgo  has  threatened  me  if 
I  do  not  give  you  to  him;  he  is  of  our  blood, 
but  he  is  abominable.    I — " 

A  soft  hand  clapped  over  his  lips.  He  heard 
passionate  words: 

** Father  mine,  stop!  Never — ^never  whisper 
again  that  you  will  sell  our  Garden.  For  I  love 
it,  next  to  you,  above  all  the  world.  We  are 
desert  people,  little  father.  We  live  in  God's 
hand  and  are  happy.  The  cities  crush  me  with 
their  noise,  their  confusion." 

^*But,  'Nicia— " 

**And,  dearest  of  daddies" — ^her  lips  against 
his  ear  were  giving  kisses  light  as  thistledown 
— ^**I  want  no  lover  but  you — ^no  happiness  but 
[106] 


THE  HEART  OF  BENICIA 

what  I  have  returned  to  here  in  the  Garden. 
Now,  not  a  word  more !'' 

She  was  on  her  feet  and  with  the  skirts  of 
her  gown  caught  in  her  fingers  was  making  him 
an  old-fashioned  curtsy.  Then  she  slipped 
into  the  shadows  where  the  great  golden  harp 
stood,  and  in  an  instant  the  ancient  room  began 
to  hum  with  spirited  arpeggios — rush  of  many 
waters  over  a  fall. 


[107] 


CHAPTER  IX 

GOLD  AND   PEABLS 

BIM  BAGLEY,  on  the  trail  of  the  informa- 
tion brought  by  Doc  Stooder's  pipe  line, 
found  himself  against  a  blank  wall  the  instant 
he  passed  through  the  barrier  of  the  Line  into 
Sonizona.  He  was  too  conversant  with  the 
ways  of  Mexican  officialdom  to  make  any  in- 
quiry in  high  places,  knowing  that  to  do  so 
would  be  but  to  jeopardize  Grant  Hickman, 
however  he  might  be  placed,  and  win  for  him- 
self naught  but  suave  denials.  Nor  did  he  even 
go  to  the  American  consul,  who,  in  the  usual 
course  of  things,  would  be  the  last  man  in 
Sonizona  to  hear  of  the  disappearance  of  an 
American  citizen  there. 

Rather,  with  Doc  Stooder's  counsel,  Bim  cir- 
culated warily  among  the  gambling  halls  and 
in  the  cantinas  where  the  rurales  were  wont 
to  go  for  their  salt  and  mescal.  Here  ten  pesos 
slipped  into  a  complacent  palm;  there  twenty. 
Then  weary  waiting  for  results. 

Bit  by  bit  the  story  came  to  him,  and  behind 
[108] 


GOLD  AND  PEARLS 

the  fragments  was  always  the  dim  figure  of 
Colonel  Hamilcar  Urgo.  Bagley  knew  TJrgo 
for  the  tyrant  politician  that  he  was:  how  he 
used  his  position  in  the  garrison  as  a  cloak  to 
cover  his  manipulations  of  government  all 
along  the  Sonora  border.  No  man  was  stronger, 
not  even  the  governor  of  Sonora  himself;  and 
the  central  regime  in  Mexico  City  was  forced 
to  wink  at  Colonel  Urgo's  obliquities  else  run 
the  risk  of  his  firing  the  train  to  revolution. 

But  why  this  little  sand  viper  in  uniform 
should  have  conceived  a  desire  to  be  rid  of 
Grant  Hickman,  a  total  stranger  to  the  coun- 
try, not  even  the  most  astute  of  Bagley 's  in- 
formers could  guess.  *'  'E's  not  like  theese 
gringo"  appeared  to  cover  the  whole  case. 

The  saturnine  doctor,  repenting  him  of  his 
brusque  reception  of  the  New  York  man — 
prompted,  after  all,  by  his  superlative  caution 
in  the  presence  of  a  possible  impostor — sent 
the  tip  to  the  farthermost  ganglions  of  his  news 
system:  ** Fifty  gold  dollars  to  the  man  bring- 
ing information  of  the  missing  American's 
whereabouts." 

Doc  Stooder's  proffer  of  that  amount   of 

money  was  not  all  humanitarian.     Below  his 

surface    show    of   concern,    designed    for   the 

benefit  of  Bim  Bagley,  good  Dr.  Stooder  did 

[109] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

not  care  a  plugged  nickel  wliat  might  be  the 
fate  of  the  Eastern  man.  He  was  not  one  to 
lose  sleep  over  the  misfortunes  of  others  if 
those  misfortunes  were  not  attributable  to 
strictly  physical  causes  and  under  materia 
medica.     Then  only  they  interested  him. 

No,  Doc  Stooder's  real  concern  was  the  delay 
caused  by  the  disappearance  of  this  third  party 
to  his  scheme  for  a  ^* great  killing.''  The  kill- 
ing in  question  was  one  he  could  not  make 
single-handed.  Circumstances  which  have  no 
place  in  this  tale  had  forced  him  to  share  the 
secret  of  it  with  Bagley,  and  the  latter  had 
refused  to  move  a  step  in  the  enterprise  until 
he  had  his  pal  from  overseas  in  on  the  game. 
The  Doc  fretted  aloud  one  day,  which  was  the 
tenth  after  Grant  had  dropped  from  sight. 

**Son,  I'm  tellin'  you  'less  we  make  tracks 
for  that  Four  Evangelists  mission  purty  pronto 
this  here  O'Donoju  Spaniard  down  in  the  Gar- 
den's goin'  to  get  what's  in  the  wind  and  shove 
in  on  us.  He's  got  every  Papago  from  here  to 
the  Gulf  runnin'  to  him  with  every  whisper  a 
little  bird  lets  spill.  He  gets  wind  you  an'  me 
are  raising  sand  to  lay  hands  on  an  engineer 
out  from  Noo  Yawk  an'  he  smells  a  mice." 

**You  go  dig  alone  for  your  dam'd  mission." 
Bim  Bagley 's  temper  had  been  ground  fine  by 
[110] 


GOLD  AND  PEAELS 

days  of  restless  anxiety.  **Me,  I  roost  right 
here  till  I  get  the  lay  where  my  buddy  is.'' 

Next  day  all  the  silver  of  subsidy  Bim  had 
distributed  bore  fruit  an  hundred-fold.  There 
came  to  the  office  of  Doc  Stooder  unquestioned 
report  that  the  missing  American  was  alive, 
though  shot  through  the  body,  and  under  the 
care  of  El  Doctor  Coyote  Belly  at  a  speck  in 
the  desert  called  Babinioqui  away  down  beyond 
the  Line. 

Bagley  was  off  in  his  car  that  night.  Doc 
Stooder,  alone  in  his  office  and  with  a  graduat- 
ing glass  and  bottle  of  fiery  tequila  at  his  elbow, 
dreamed  of  gold  plate  brought  to  light  from 
caverns  of  sand,  of  altar  jewels  and  hoards  of 
nuggets — riches  of  crafty  priests — salvaged 
from  the  crypt  of  a  holy  place  lost  to  sight  of 
man  a  century  and  a  quarter. 

**Gold  all  hammered  into  crosses  an'  such!" 
The  Doc  tipped  his  brimming  graduating  glass 
against  the  electric  bulb  and  studied  with  fond 
eye  the  liquor  made  golden  by  the  light. 

** — ^Pearls,  my  Papago  says.  Pearls  big  as 
hisnaga  fruit  an'  greeny-white  like  a  high 
moon.  Gold  an'  pearls!  Pearls  an'  gold! 
Stooder,  you're  goin'  be  a  prancin',  r'arin' 
aristocrat!" 

•  [111] 


CHAPTER  X 


SIX  days  after  Quelele  the  Papago  set  out 
on  Ms  mission  of  mercy  from  the  Casa 
O'Donoju  he  returned  to  the  oasis.  It  was  in 
the  first  flush  of  dawn  that  the  shuf-shuf  of  the 
little  car  roused  master  and  servants;  Quelele 
had  travelled  all  night  and  at  a  pace  to  con- 
serve the  strength  of  the  wounded  man,  who 
lay  on  thick  straw  in  the  box  body.  All  night 
without  lights  save  the  thickly  strewn  lamps  in 
the  firmament,  wending  hither  and  thither 
through  the  scrub  where  half-guessed  lines  in 
the  sand  marked  the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men — 
a  journey  weird  enough. 

For  Grant  Hickman  it  was  but  part  of  the 
moving  drama  of  a  dream.  That  instant  of 
flight  from  the  chain  gang,  when  a  bullet  tore 
through  his  shoulder  and  sent  him  toppling 
into  the  arroyo,  was  the  visitation  of  death; 
in  his  flickering  perceptions  all  else  following 
was  but  adventuring  in  the  country  beyond 
death — incidents  to  paint  impressions  on  a  con- 
sciousness otherwise  wiped  clean  of  other- 
[112] 


AT  THE  CAS  A  O'DONOJU 

world  recollections.  First  of  these  exposures 
on  the  cloudy  plate  of  his  mind  came  many- 
days  after  the  rurales  had  left  him  for  dead  in 
the  desert:  a  face  deep-dyed  as  mahogany  and 
with  white  bristles  of  a  beard  about  chin  and 
lips,  a  face  kindly  withal,  which  bent  near  his 
as  a  hand  lifted  his  head  to  bring  his  lips  to  a 
vessel  of  pungent  brew.  Then  another  age  of 
drifting  and  swimming  through  soft  clouds. 

Grant  had  just  come  to  accept  the  grey- 
thatched  face  of  El  Doctor  Coyote  Belly  as 
part  of  a  permanent  picture  when  another 
Indian  appeared  between  himself  and  the 
bundles  of  sticks  making  a  roof  over  his  head. 
This  second  personage  in  the  world  of  the  un- 
real, a  giant  with  the  features  of  a  boy,  had 
spelled  El  Doctor  in  ministering  herb  brews 
and  keeping  the  wet  cloths  under  the  burn- 
ing wound  in  his  back  for  what  seemed  many 
years.  Then  Grant  had  felt  himself  lifted, 
carried  from  the  hut  with  the  bundles  of  sticks 
for  a  roof  and  laid  on  sweet  smelling  straw. 
In  the  starshine  he  felt  the  hand  of  El  Doctor 
close  over  his  own  with  a  heartening  squeeze. 

Then — ^wonder  of  wonders! — the  racking 
cough  of  a  gas  engine,  and  Grant  was  soaring 
back  to  that  familiar  earth  which  had  been 
lost  to  him  so  long. 

[113] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Upon  the  arrival  of  the  car  bringing  Grant 
to  the  Casa  O'Donoju  Don  Padraic,  hastily- 
dressed,  superintended  the  moving  of  his  guest 
to  a  small,  clean  room,  candle  lit.  The  wounded 
man  felt  the  gracious  softness  of  feathers 
under  him,  the  suave  clinging  of  sheets.  An 
aged  Indian  woman,  working  under  the  white 
man's  direction,  divested  him  of  his  tattered 
clothes  and  patted  everything  comfortable. 
Drowsy  luxury  stole  across  his  consciousness 
to  cloud  it  and  bring  sleep. 

Sunlight  flooded  the  room  when  Grant  awoke. 
He  was  alone.  His  mind  was  clearer  than  it 
had  been  since  he  was  shot.  Only  the  steady 
burning  in  his  vitals  linked  this  moment  of  com- 
fort with  the  tortured  past.  His  eyes  roved 
about  the  room  to  take  in  its  appointments. 
White  walls  devoid  of  ornamentation;  by  the 
heavy  door  with  its  curiously  wrought  iron 
latch  a  single  chest  of  drawers  of  some  antique 
pattern;  the  bed  he  lay  upon  massive  as  a 
galleon  of  old  days  and  with  a  canopy  of  carved 
wood  and  tapestry  for  a  sail :  here  was  a  room 
from  the  period  department  of  the  Metropoli- 
tan Museum. 

Grant  was  patiently  trying  to  fit  together  the 
jig-saw  scraps  of  his  memory  when  the  door 
[114] 


AT  THE  CASA  O'DONOJU 

opened  and  the  white  man  he  had  seen  the 
night  hefore  entered.  Seeing  the  light  of  rea- 
son in  the  patient's  eyes,  Don  Padraic  smiled 
and  howed.  Something  mighty  heartening  lay 
in  that  welcome  and  the  warm  cordiality  of 
Don  Padraic 's  features. 

**I  am  rejoiced  to  find  you  better  to-day,"  he 
said  as  he  drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  bed. 
** Yours  was  a  hard  journey  last  night." 

**I  am  still  a  little  uncertain  up  here" — 
Grant  tapped  his  forehead  with  an  attempt  at 
a  laugh.  **For  instance,  I  was  just  thinking 
I  had  been  lifted  straight  into  a  room  of  the 
Metropolitan  in  New  York." 

The  host's  brows  were  knitted  an  instant, 
then  he  caught  the  allusion  and  smiled. 

''Ah,  yes;  we  have  rather  ancient  furnish- 
ings here.  But  you  are  quite  a  distance  from 
New  York,  senor.  This  is  the  Casa  O'Donoju 
in  the  Garden  of  Solitude,  and  I  am  Don  Pa- 
draic O'Donoju." 

The  name  crashed  into  Grant's  consciousness 
like  the  clang  of  iron.  His  heart  gave  a  great 
leap.  Could  it  be  possible — ?  No,  this  must 
be  but  part  of  the  aurora  dreams  of  the  vague 
eternity  still  just  behind  his  back.  Grant 
wished  to  make  no  blunder  which  might  belie 
[115] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  present  soundness  of  his  mind,  so  he  held 
his  tongue  over  the  question  burning  to  be 
asked.    Instead : 

**My  name  is  Grant  Hickman,  sir.  I  am 
deeply  obliged  to  you  for  your  charity  in  bring- 
ing me  here.  Of  course,  I  do  not  know  quite 
how  it  all  happened — ^my  coming  here  from 
some  place  else,  where  an  Indian,  or  two  of 
them — seemed  to  be  caring  for  me.  And  I 
fear  I  am  hardly  a  presentable  guest."  The 
sick  man's  hand  passed  ruefully  over  his 
stubby  chin. 

Don  Padraic  made  a  gesture  dismissing 
Grant's  fastidiousness.  **Senor,  a  gentleman 
should  not  consider  the  state  of  his  beard  and 
the  state  of  his  health  with  equal  seriousness. 
The  one  may  be  repaired  at  once  even  if  our 
wishes  cannot  immediately  effect  a  cure  of  the 
other.  Permit  me  to  retire,  senor,  and  not 
tax  you  with  questions  until  you  are  stronger." 

Shortly  after  the  gentle  host  had  bowed  him- 
self out  an  Indian  servant  entered  with  basin 
and  razor  and  effected  an  agreeable  change  in 
the  patient's  appearance.  Then  Grant  was 
left  alone  with  the  tab  to  a  wonderful  possibility 
to  turn  over  and  over  in  his  mind. 

He  was  in  the  house  of  the  0  'Dono ju.  Could 
[116] 


AT  THE  CASA  O'DONOJU 

there  be  more  than  one  family  of  that  unusual 
name  in  the  desert  country;  or  had  fate  thrown 
him  a  recompense  for  all  he'd  suffered  by  lift- 
ing him  from  a  line  of  chained  convicts  to  carry 
him  through  a  nightmare  straight  to  the  one 
spot  in  all  the  world  he  most  desired  to  be  in! 
Perhaps  under  the  same  roof,  near  enough  to 
him  to  permit  the  carrying  of  her  laughter, 
was  Benicia,  the  vivid  creature  who  had  won 
his  heart  into  captivity. 

He  was  not  kept  long  in  suspense.  The  door 
opened  and  Don  Padraic's  white  clad  figure 
appeared,  behind  it  Benicia.  She  was  in  khaki, 
as  Grant  had  last  seen  her  at  the  Arizora 
station,  wide-brimmed  hat  noosed  under  her 
chin  just  as  she  had  come  in  from  a  ride 
through  the  oasis.  All  the  wild,  free  spaces  of 
the  wilderness  seemed  compacted  in  the  girl's 
trim  figure,  in  the  flush  of  her  browned  cheeks 
touched  by  the  sun. 

'^Senor  Hickman — "  Don  Padraic  began  in- 
troduction, but  Benicia  was  at  the  bedside ;  her 
cool  hand  was  given  to  Grant's  clasp  with  a 
gesture  of  boyish  comradeship. 

**We  need  not  be  introduced,  father,"  Beni- 
cia laughed,  and  there  was  a  queer  catch  in  her 
throat.  **Senor  Hickman  did  me  a  service  on 
[117] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  train  which  served  as  the  best  introduction 
in  the  world."  Turning  back  to  Grant — **I  did 
not  know,  senor,  you  were  the  wounded  man 
Quelele  brought  into  our  home  so  early  this 
morning — did  not  even  know  we  had  a  guest 
until  my  father  told  me  when  I  returned  from 
my  ride  a  few  minutes  ago." 

Grant  strove  to  put  all  his  heart  prompted  in 
words  that  were  mete:  **And  I  did  not  dare 
hope  that  this  house  to  which  a  miracle  has 
brought  me  was  the  desert  home  you  described 
on  the  train." 

Benicia's  eyes  read  surely  what  his  lips 
would  not  frame.  She  saw  in  the  white  face 
of  the  wounded  man  a  touch  of  that  old  hardi- 
hood and  forthright  spirit  of  address  which 
had  commended  this  American  to  her  at  first 
meeting — commended  him  even  against  her 
own  impulse  to  resent  his  self-assurance.  But 
she  saw,  too,  how  sliffering  battled  to  dim  the 
valiant  spirit,  and  something  deeper  than  ab-; 
stract  sympathy  stirred  in  her  heart. 

**But,  senor,  to  meet  you  again  this  way! 
Father  has  told  me  the  message  brought  from 
El  Doctor:  how  you  were  found  among  dead 
men  on  the  Hermosillo  road  and  brought  back 
to  life  by  that  old  Papago.  You,  a  stranger 
[118] 


AT  THE  CAS  A  O'DONOJU 

and  unknown  here  in  the  desert  country — ^how 
could  this  happen  to  you,  senorf" 

Don  Padraic  interposed: 

**  Perhaps,  'Nicia,  when  Senor  Hickman  is 
stronger  he  will  answer  questions.  Would  it 
not  be  better—?" 

The  girl  was  quick  to  appreciate  her  father's 
considerate  thought.  Again  she  laid  her  hand 
in  Grant's. 

**If  you  will  permit  me  to  play  the  doctor — 
at  least  to  see  to  it  that  lazy  old  'Cepcion, 
your  nurse,  does  not  neglect  you?"  The  smile 
that  went  with  this  promise  was  tonic  for  the 
sick  man.  It  remained  like  an  afterglow  when 
the  door  was  closed  behind  the  girl.  And 
when  the  wrinkled  Indian  woman  came  an  hour 
later  with  broth  on  a  silver  tray  that  smile 
reappeared,  translated  into  the  fragrant  beauty 
of  rose  petals  laid  by  the  side  of  the  bowl. 

Five  luxurious  days  passed — days  each  with 
a  wonderful  spot  of  sunshine  in  them — that 
when  Benicia  accompanied  the  aged  'Cepcion 
to  his  chamber.  On  these  daily  visits  she  would 
draw  her  chair  to  the  side  of  the  great  bed — she 
looked  very  small  below  the  high  buttress  of  the 
mattress — and  while  he  quaffed  his  chicken 
broth  and  nibbled  his  flaky  tortillas  Benicia 
[119] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

would  talk.  'Cepcion,  like  some  mahogany  col- 
oured manikin  in  her  flaring  skirts  and  winged 
bodice,  always  stood,  arms  akimbo  and  features 
passive  as  a  graven  image,  behind  her  mistress' 
chair. 

The  girPs  talk  was  directed  away  from  the 
personal ;  with  an  art  concealing  art  she  evaded 
Grant's  frequent  endeavours  to  swing  conversa- 
tion into  more  intimate  channels.  She  brought 
the  world  of  the  desert  into  the  sick  room,  un- 
consciously revealing  herself  as  a  flashing,  rest- 
less creature  of  the  wastes:  now  on  horseback 
and  threading  dim  trails  over  the  Line  to  carry 
quinine  to  a  family  of  Papagoes  down  with  the 
fever ;  now  beside  Quelele  in  the  little  gas-beetle 
and  skimming  to  Caborca,  the  southern  town, 
to  buy  a  wedding  dress  for  an  Indian  belle. 

Not  once  did  she  touch  again  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  Grant's  misadventures  and  how  he  came 
to  be  found  on  the  road  to  Hermosillo.  A  deli- 
cate sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  prompted  her 
to  await  the  moment  when  he  himself  should 
volunteer  explanations.  Grant,  on  his  part, 
felt  an  impelling  reluctance  to  give  details,  for 
to  do  so  would  necessitate  his  revealing  his  con- 
viction that  little  Colonel  Urgo's  was  the  hand 
that  had  pushed  him  so  near  death.  A  delicate 
[120] 


AT  THE  CASA  O'DONOJU 

— perhaps  quixotic — sense  of  personal  honour 
prompted  that  he  keep  his  enemy's  name  out 
of  any  explanations.  He  could  not  know  how 
close  might  be  the  little  Spaniard's  relations 
with  Benicia  and  her  father — even  discounting 
Urgo's  boast  that  he  expected  to  make  the  girl 
his  wife — and,  besides,  he  felt  the  score  between 
himself  and  Urgo  must  be  evened  before  he 
linked  the  ColonePs  name  with  his  experiences. 

With  Benicia 's  father  Grant  modified  his 
resolution  to  a  certain  degree.  It  was  no  more 
than  proper,  he  argued  with  himself,  that  the 
master  of  the  Casa  O'Donoju  have  some  expla- 
nation for  the  presence  in  his  house  of  a  man 
from  a  Mexican  chain  gang. 

**Senor  O'Donoju,"  Grant  addressed  his 
host  when  the  latter  was  come  on  one  of  his 
daily  visits,  **you  have  been  more  than  kind 
to  me,  but  I  fear  I  may  be  an  embarrassment 
to  you — a  fugitive,  you  know,  if  that  is  my 
status  before  the  law." 

**My  dear  sir" — the  courtly  Spaniard  waved 
away  Grant's  scruples  with  a  smile — **you 
forget  that  the  evidence  El  Doctor  Coyote 
Belly  found  on  the  Hermosillo  Eoad — you  the 
only  survivor  among  eight  men  who  had  been 
murdered,  eight  men  with  marks  of  fetters  on 
[121] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

their  wrists;  that  this  evidence,  I  say,  clearly 
indicates  you  now  have  no  status  whatever  be- 
fore what  the  Mexicans  call  their  law/' 

Grant  looked  his  surprise.  Don  Padraic  con- 
tinued easily: 

**You  are  officially  dead,  Senor  Hickman.  It 
is  the  ley  de  fuga — the  law  of  flight.  You  were 
shot  trying  to  escape  while  being  transferred 
from  one  prison  to  another.  Monstrous  bar- 
barism! So  the  president,  Francisco  Madero, 
met  his  end;  so,  perhaps,  Carranza.  When 
you  were  chained  to  other  convicts  and  sent 
afoot  out  into  the  desert  you  were  doomed ;  the 
men  responsible  for  that  act  counted  you  as 
dead  the  minute  they  ordered  you  overland  to 
Hermosillo. ' ' 

Grant  recalled  the  mask  of  fear  he'd  seen 
settle  over  the  features  of  the  big  Indian,  his 
chain  mate,  when  the  rurales  began  to  loose 
the  fetters  in  the  sunset  hour  of  that  fateful 
night  on  the  desert;  how  the  asthmatic  little 
Chinaman  had  commenced  his  chant  to  the  joss 
— ^men  who  had  known  every  weary  hour  of  that 
march  brought  them  nearer  to  the  stroke  of 
doom. 

**I  have  no  direct  evidence  to  explain  why  I 
was  in  that  chain  gang, ' '  Grant  began,  honestly 
[122] 


AT  THE  CASA  O'DONOJU 

enough;  then  he  told  the  story  of  the  fight  in 
the  gambling  palace  after  the  discovery  of  the 
counterfeit  dollars  in  his  pocket,  reserving  only 
all  reference  to  Colonel  Urgo.  His  host  heard 
him  through  with  a  grave  face. 

** Perhaps,"  he  ventured,  **you  were  on  some 
mission  to  the  Border  which  ran  counter  to 
the  interests  of  a  scheming  official  on  the  Mexi- 
can side." 

**To  be  honest,  I  do  not  know  yet  on  what 
mission  I  came  to  Arizora,''  Grant  conceded 
with  a  laugh.  **A  friend  of  mine  wrote  me  in 
New  York  he  wanted  me  to  join  him  in  *a 
whale  of  a  proposition'  out  here  along  the 
Border.  I  was  fool  enough  to  come  just  on 
that,  and  when  I  had  an  interview  with  a 
Dr.  Stooder— '' 

**Ah!"  The  interjection  escaped  Bon  Pa- 
draic  against  instant  reflex  of  judgment,  as 
his  hand  part  way  raised  to  his  lips  betrayed. 
Grant  caught  the  other's  quickly  covered  con- 
fusion and  suddenly  was  sensible  of  his  care- 
less garrulity.  Here  he  was  bandying  names 
in  a  matter  his  friend  Bagley  had  surrounded 
with  unexplained  secrecy.    He  finished  lamely : 

**And  so  on  my  first  night  in  Arizora  I  fell 
into  a  trap.'' 

[123] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Wlien  Don  Padraic  left  the  chamber  Grant 
still  was  dwelling  upon  his  host's  involuntary- 
exclamation  at  the  name  of  Doc  Stooder. 
What  was  there  about  the  saturnine  physician, 
what  notorious  reputation  which  could  lead  a 
hermit  such  as  Don  Padraic  away  off  in  this 
desert  oasis  to  evince  surprise  that  one  under 
his  roof  had  had  dealings  with  him  ?  More  and 
more  an  undefined  regret  for  his  mention  of  the 
name  of  Stooder  plagued  him. 

In  truth,  the  whole  reason  for  his  coming  to 
Arizora  and  whatever  fantastic  project  might 
be  at  the  bottom  of  it  appeared  now  strangely 
linked  with  this  latest  turn  of  fate,  his  coming 
to  the  Casa  O'Donoju.  Grant  became  aware 
of  a  duty  long  overlooked  and  wrote  a  brief 
and  non-committal  note  to  Bim  Bagley,  in  Ari- 
zora, saying  only  he  had  suffered  an  accident 
and  would  return  to  the  Border  town  as  soon 
as  he  was  able.  This  Benicia  took  from  him 
to  give  to  Quelele  when  he  should  go  to  the 
nearest  railroad  town. 

Two  day's  thereafter  befell  a  boon  the 
wounded  man  had  dreamed  of  during  many 
yearning  hours.  Two  male  servants  of  the 
household  came  to  dress  him  in  one  of  Don 
Padraic 's  white  suits — ^his  own  clothes  were 
rags — and  assisted  him  down  a  long  hall  which 
[124] 


AT  THE  CASA  O'DONOJU 

turned  into  the  green  paradise  of  the  patio. 
There  under  the  royal  date  palm  they  sat  him, 
with  the  fountain  pool  and  its  magic  purple 
sails  of  the  hyacinth  at  his  feet,  behind  and  on 
either  hand  the  green  and  crimson  glory  of 
the  geraniums. 

Benicia  was  awaiting  him  there  alone.  The 
girl,  in  a  simple  green  frock  which  revealed 
bare  arms  and  the  warm  round  of  her  shoul- 
ders, was  the  embodiment  of  the  garden's  fairy 
essence.  She  was  a  sprite  of  this  green  and 
glowing  place.  Hot  sunlight  falling  upon  her 
head  made  it  a  great  exotic  flower. 

**Now  both  of  us  can  revel  in  being  law- 
breakers,'' she  exclaimed  when  the  Indians  had 
bowed  themselves  out.  She  was  hovering 
about  Grant,  patting  into  place  the  gay  serape 
which  covered  his  knees. 

** Lawbreakers!"  Grant's  glowing  eyes  be- 
spoke the  intoxication  of  pleasure.  **I  feel, 
rather,  like  a  prisoner  whose  sentence  is  com- 
muted." 

The  girl's  rippling  laughter  ended  with,  '*0h, 
but  my  father  said  you  should  not  be  moved 
for  three  days  yet.  Now  he  has  gone  into 
town  with  Quelele  and  you  and  I  are  breaking 
the  law — ^with  you  equally  guilty." 

**What  man  would  not  rush  into  crime  with 
[125] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

you  to  lead!''  he  rallied,  and  the  little  game 
of  give  and  take  in  joke  and  repartee  which 
had  been  of  their  devising  these  last  few  days 
of  Grant's  convalescence,  when  Benicia  made 
her  daily  visits  at  his  bedside,  was  resumed. 
It  was  in  this  course  their  friendship  had 
grown:  on  a  basis  of  comradeship  and  with 
healthy  minds  in  apposition,  giving  and  finding 
something  of  humour,  of  rollicking  fun.  No 
angling  for  sickly  sentimentalism  on  the  part 
of  this  unspoiled  girl  of  the  waste  places — so 
Grant  during  hours  of  staring  at  the  ceiling 
had  appraised  the  heart  of  Benicia  O'Donoju; 
no  place  in  their  communion  for  any  of  the 
trite  nothings  a  man  burbles  into  concealed  ear 
of  a  flapper  over  tea  or  whatever  else  comes 
from  the  sophisticated  city  teapot. 

During  these  delicious  hours  in  the  shadow- 
dappled  patio,  as  heretofore,  Benicia  continued 
a  tantalizing  enigma  to  the  man  of  cities. 
While  seeming  to  give  so  freely  of  herself  in 
laughing  quip  and  quick  answer  to  his  sallies, 
never  was  there  that  least  suspicion  of  some 
overtone  to  her  buoyancy  the  man  yearned  to 
catch;  not  the  quick  revealing  of  secret  depths 
in  the  eyes  which  would  betray  a  heart  respon- 
sive to  the  waves  of  the  man's  love  envelop- 
ing her.  Yet  the  lips  of  the  girl,  full,  soft, 
[126] 


AT  THE  CASA  O'DONOJU 

trembling  with  unconcealed  promise  of  rich- 
ness to  the  one  conquering  them :  these  were  not 
the  lips  of  one  devoid  of  love's  alluring  tyran- 
nies. Nor  was  the  rounded  body  of  her,  fully 
ripened  to  share  in  the  law  of  life  giving,  one 
to  wither  outside  love's  garden. 

Grant  could  not  speculate,  with  tremors  of 
eagerness,  on  the  flood  of  passion  that  was 
dammed  behind  the  girl's  sure  mastery  of  her- 
self. Dare  he  believe  that  he  might  be  the  one 
to  loose  that  flood  ?  As  he  sat  there  in  the  odor- 
ous garden  the  nimble,  superficial  part  of  his 
brain  was  playing  with  bubbles  while  the  deeper 
fibre  of  him  resolved  that  nothing  in  the  world 
mattered  beyond  possessing  Benicia's  love. 

When  luncheon  was  cleared  away — it  had 
been  a  veritable  feast  of  laughter — Benicia 
clapped  her  hands  and  gave  some  direction  to 
the  servant  answering.  The  Indian  woman  dis- 
appeared in  the  body  of  the  house,  soon  to 
come  waddling  out  under  the  weight  of  the 
great  harp.  Grant  gasped  his  surprise;  he 
never  had  associated  harps  with  any  surround- 
ings other  than  the  orchestra  pit. 

**My   Irish   ancestors,   who   were   kings   in 

Donegal,  always  called  for  their  harp  after  a 

feast,"  Benicia  declared  with  laughter  in  her 

eyes.    **That  is  the  reason  we  Irish  are  such 

[127] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

dreamers.  The  liarp  is  tlie  stairs  to  dreams. 
Listen,  senor,  and  hear  if  I  tell  the  truth.'' 

Grant  watched  her,  fascinated.  Her  slender 
body  was  in  the  shade  of  a  great  palm  frond, 
but  when  she  leaned  her  head  forward  against 
the  carved  sounding  board  a  narrow  lance  of 
sunshine  shot  down  to  kindle  her  hair  to  flame 
there  against  the  gold.  As  her  bare  arms 
passed  in  swift  flight  of  swallows  across  the 
field  of  strings  shadows  and  sunlight  played 
upon  them  in  gules  and  chevrons  of  black  and 
ivory. 

First  she  gave  the  solo,  Depuis  le  Jour, 
from  some  opera  Grant  vaguely  recalled;  it 
was  a  mad  thing,  wherein  the  great  instrument 
thundered  to  the  far  recesses  of  the  patio  gar- 
den. Then  the  girPs  mood  changed  and  was 
interpreted  in  the  sighing  motif  of  In  the  Gar- 
den.  It  was  all  bird  song  and  lisping  fountains. 
Grant  allowed  his  eyes  to  close  so  his  soul  could 
take  flight  with  the  music. 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  Benicia's  fingers  swept 
the  final  chords.    The  great  harp  was  still. 

Out  from  the  shadow  of  a  flanking  archway 
stepped  a  dapper  little  figure  in  a  cloak.  Heels 
clicked  sharply  and  the  marionette  bowed  low. 
It  was  Colonel  Hamilcar  Urgo. 

[128] 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MARK  OF  EL  ROJO 

COLONEL  URGO  straightened  himself, 
and  the  smile  that  had  twisted  his  little 
waxed  moustache  awry  suddenly  was  smudged 
out.  For  his  eyes  encountered  what  they  were 
hardly  prepared  to  see — a  living  dead  man. 
His  face  went  sickly  white;  one  hand  arrested 
itself  in  the  motion  of  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross.    He  stared  at  Grant,  fascinated. 

Grant  himself  was  little  less  shaken  at  the 
appearance  of  his  enemy.  It  was  as  if  a  cobra 
suddenly  had  lifted  its  head  from  the  patio's 
flowering  jungle.  In  a  moment  of  dreamy 
ecstasy,  when  he  had  felt  his  heart  yearning 
toward  the  girl's  over  a  bridge  of  music,  came 
this  sinister  apparition  of  evil.  It  was  not 
fear  of  the  man  that  caused  Grant's  heart  to 
pound — the  waspish  little  Spaniard  possessed 
no  essence  of  malignity  sufficient  to  terrify 
one  of  the  American's  fibre;  rather  a  loathing 
and  instinctive  reflex  of  anger  gorged  his  com- 
bative nerves  with  blood.  Grant  read  surely 
[129] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

enough  the  shock  of  surprise  in  his  enemy's 
eyes  and  cannily  laid  this  revelation  away  as 
a  weapon  to  hand  should  necessity  demand  its 
use. 

As  for  Benicia,  she  made  no  pretence  of  con- 
cealing her  annoyance.  Quick  perception 
seized  upon  the  coincidence  of  her  father's 
absence  and  Colonel  Urge's  coming;  she  knew 
the  wily  little  suitor  had  somehow  managed  to 
time  his  visit  to  that  circumstance.  In  the 
first  flush  of  her  surprise  Benicia  caught  her- 
self feeling  a  great  thankfulness  that  Grant 
Hickman  was  in  the  house. 

*'If  you  have  come  to  see  my  father" — 
Benicia  did  not  rise  to  greet  Urgo  when  he 
took  a  tentative  step  toward  her — **he  is 
absent  at  the  moment.  I  am  sorry  you  have 
not  found  him  at  home." 

Urge's  lynx  eyes  darted  from  the  girl's  face 
to  Grant's  and  back  again.  Plainly  he  was  in 
a  quandary,  not  knowing  how  much — if  any- 
thing— this  American  had  told  his  hosts  of 
the  circumstances  of  a  night  in  Sonizona  and 
its  consequences.  Benicia,  misreading  his  per- 
turbation, was  quick  to  interpose  with  a  smile 
all  irony: 

**This  is  Senor  Hickman,  whom  you  may 
[130] 


THE  MARK  OF  EL  ROJO 

remember  having  seen  on  the  train.  Senor 
Hickman,  this  is  a  distant  cousin  of  mine,  Colo- 
nel Hamilcar  Urgo,  of  the  garrison  at  Sonizona. 
He  is  the  gentleman  who  believed  you  occupied 
his  berth  out  of  El  Paso,  if  you  recall.  There 
was  some  slight  misunderstanding — '' 

Grant  flashed  a  glance  at  the  girl,  read  the 
mockery  in  her  eyes  and  took  his  cue  from  her : 

**I  believe  I  have  seen  the  Colonel  subse- 
quently,'^  this  in  heavy  seriousness.  ^^Was  it 
not  somewhere  in  Sonizona  T' 

**I  do  not  recall  having  had  that  honour." 
Teeth  flashed  in  a  nervous  smile  and  the  man's 
eyes  veiled  themselves  furtively.  He  caught  the 
challenge  to  battle  of  wits  with  the  American 
and  entrenched  himself  accordingly.  Colonel 
Urgo  found  himself  at  a  momentary  disadvan- 
tage, however ;  he  did  not  know  what  ammuni- 
tion his  rival  would  choose.  Essaying  a  diver- 
sion, he  addressed  the  girl  in  rapid  Spanish. 

**Our  guest,  Senor  Hickman,  does  not  under- 
stand Spanish,"  Benicia  insinuated  reproof. 
**Yes,  it  is  quite  true,  as  you  have  judged,  that 
he  is  recovering  from  a  wound — a  slight  mis- 
adventure on  the  road  to  Hermosillo.  But 
pray  be  seated,  my  cousin,  and  let  me  order 
wine  and  a  light  luncheon.  You  are  visibly 
[131] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEBT 

fatigued."  With  a  slight  bow  to  Urgo  Benicia 
arose  and  crossed  the  patio  to  disappear  in  the 
shadows  of  the  arcade. 

Urgo,  surprised  into  an  unpleasant  situation 
by  being  left  alone  with  the  man  he  had  sent 
to  death,  fidgeted  with  the  hasp  of  his  ciga- 
rette case.  He  made  great  difficulty  of  scratch- 
ing a  match.  Grant,  watching  his  every  move, 
decided  to  play  some  of  the  cards  fate  had 
dealt  him. 

**I  guessed  you  were  inquiring  of  Senorita 
O'Donoju  about  my  condition.  Colonel.  You 
are  charmingly  solicitous.  I  was  shot  in  the 
back — bullet  through  my  shoulder.  Left  for 
dead  with  the  other  convicts." 

The  little  Spaniard  let  smoke  seep  through 
his  nostrils  and  spread  out  his  hands  to  say, 
**So  much  for  that!"  Grant  was  not  to  be 
denied  his  advantage : 

**0f  course.  Colonel  Urgo,  I  remember  you 
were  good  enough  to  be  present  when  I  was 
arraigned  at  the  jail  on  a  false  charge  of  coun- 
terfeiting; I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  promise 
you  made  then  to  do  what  you  could  for  me. 
You  did — all  you  possibly  could!"  Grant's 
smile  had  become  set  and  one  hand  resting  on 
his  blanketed  knees  flexed  into  a  fist,  white 
across  the  knuckles. 

[132] 


THE  MARK  OF  EL  ROJO 

Urgo  expelled  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  his 
lungs  and  showed  his  teeth  in  a  wolf's  smile. 

**You  remember  much,  senor.  Do  not  fail 
to  remember,  too,  you  are  a  criminal  under  the 
laws  of  Mexico,  to  be  tried  on  charge  of  coun- 
terfeiting at  the  court  of  Hermosillo." 

^^YesT'  Grant  was  cool  under  the  other's 
counter.  **And  will  you  move  to  take  me  to 
Hermosillo  after  what  happened — out  yonder 
on  that  road  through  the  desert?" 

**I?"  Urgo's  shoulders  lifted.  '^I  am  a 
soldier,  senor.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
justice  and  the  courts.  But  assuredly  you  will 
be  taken  to  Hermosillo  and  put  on  trial." 

The  little  Spaniard  had  fully  recovered  his 
poise  by  now.  The  uneasy  light  in  his  eyes 
had  yielded  to  a  dangerous  flicker  of  craft. 
Suavity  of  a  tiger's  purr  lurked  in  his  voice. 
Grant  mastered  the  rage  which  ridged  all  his 
fighting  muscles  despite  the  weakness  of  his 
body;  this  was  no  moment  to  be  betrayed  into 
throwing  away  a  trick. 

**But  before  I  go  to  Hermosillo,  Colonel,  of 
course  I  shall  take  precautions  to  insure  that 
I  get  there — that  there  will  be  no  more  ley  de 
fuga  in  my  case.  Don  Padraic  O'Donoju,  who 
is  an  honest  man;  I  shall  take  him  more  fully 
into  my  confidence  and — " 
[133] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

''Then  you  liave  told — T'  Urgo  bit  his  lip 
in  mortification  over  having  fallen  into  a  trap. 
Grant's  answering  smile  was  innocent  as  a 
babe 's. 

*^I  might  prefer,  Colonel  Urgo,  to  confine 
our  affair — call  it  a  misunderstanding  between 
two  gentlemen — strictly  to  yourself  and  myself, 
trusting  to  take  care  of  myself  when  I  have 
recovered  my  strength.  But  should  I  be  driven 
to  seek  the  assistance  of  an  honest  man — " 

Benicia  appeared  that  instant;  behind  her 
was  'Cepcion  with  a  silver  tray.  Before  Colo- 
nel Urgo  bobbed  to  his  feet  Grant  caught  a 
shaft  of  cold  fury  from  his  eyes  which  said 
that  if  the  girl's  presence  forced  an  armistice 
no  promise  of  peace  lay  at  its  termination. 

Followed  an  interlude  of  quiet  comedy. 
Grant,  content  to  leave  the  first  move  in  the 
hands  of  his  enemy,  eased  his  shoulder  lazily 
against  the  chair  back  and  let  his  eyes  play 
over  the  Spaniard's  face  and  diminutive  figure. 
There  was  an  indolent  suggestion  of  probing, 
of  detached  appraisal  in  the  steady  scrutiny 
which  bit  into  Urgo's  pride.  That  and  dull 
rage  over  the  unexplained  presence  of  his  rival 
here  in  Benicia 's  home  kept  the  little  whippet 
fidgeting. 

He  essayed  addressing  the  girl  in  her  own 
[134] 


THE  MAEK  OF  EL  ROJO 

ton^e,  but  again  and  more  pointedly  Benicia 
reminded  him  of  this  breach  of  courtesy.  She 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  the  imp  of  humour 
that  tugged  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth;  this 
flickering  of  a  smile  and  the  dancing  of  her  eyes 
made  farcical  the  sober  decorum  of  her  speech. 
Urgo,  no  fool,  was  not  long  realizing  he  was 
being  made  the  butt  of  his  cousin's  sport. 
Thin  lines  of  strain  began  to  appear  about  the 
mouth  that  smiled  so  smugly;  just  below  his 
temples  irritated  nerves  commenced  setting 
the  muscles  a-twitching.  Grant,  who  did  not 
fail  to  note  these  reflexes,  saw  in  the  figure 
opposite  a  preying  animal  setting  himself  for 
a  spring. 

Urgo  and  Benicia  had  been  exchanging  com- 
monplaces. Suddenly  the  man  leaned  forward 
tensely  and  returned  to  the  forbidden  Spanish 
in  a  hurried  burst:  *^For  your  own  good,  my 
cousin,  I  must  have  a  few  minutes  with  you 
alone.    Arrange  it,  I  command  you." 

**You  are  hardly  the  one,  sweetest  cousin, 
to  be  the  judge  of  my  good.  Nor  the  one  to 
command  me."  Benicia  retorted  in  the  same 
tongue.  Then,  turning  with  a  smile  of  mock 
apology  to  Grant:  **You  will  excuse  Colonel 
Urgo  his  occasional  lapse  from  a  tongue  that 
is  difficult  for  him." 

[135] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

The  Spaniard  took  a  final  draught  of  wine 
and  pushed  back  from  the  table  where  his 
luncheon  had  been  spread.  As  he  idly  tapped 
the  corn  husk  of  one  of  his  cigarettes  Grant 
thought  he  saw  resolution  shape  itself  in  the 
narrowed  eyes.  There  was  a  moment's  silence, 
then  Urgo  addressed  himself  graciously  to 
Grant : 

**Senor  Hickman,  perhaps  my  adorable  cou- 
sin here  has  not  found  opportunity  to  tell  you 
anything  of  the  history  of  this  remarkable 
house  in  the  desert  where  you  have  found  such 
agreeable  convalescence." 

**I  believe  not."  Grant  spoke  warily,  his 
senses  alert  for  some  pitfall.  He  shot  a  warn- 
ing glance  at  Benicia;  but  the  girl,  ignorant  of 
the  grim  feud  between  the  two,  could  not  read 
it  understandingly.  Colonel  Urgo  surrounded 
his  head  with  a  blue  cloud  and  continued : 

^  *  An  engaging  history,  senor.  Not  a  house  in 
all  Sonora  with  such  romance  behind  it,  such 
— ^how  do  you  say  it? — such  legend,  eh? 
Though  I  am  distantly  of  the  same  family,  our 
branch  cannot  claim  the  distinction  that  falls 
to  my  cousin,  who  is  the  last  of  the  veritable 
O'Donoju. 

'  ^  Behold  her  glorious  head,  Senor  Hickman ! ' ' 
Urgo  waved  his  cigarette  to  point  the  burning 
[136] 


THE  MAEK  OF  EL  EOJO 

of  sunliglit  above  Benicia's  brow;  bis  own  bead 
inclined  as  if  in  reverence.  *  *  Tbere  in  my  fair- 
est cousin's  so-marvellous  bair  lies  all  tbe  leg- 
end and  tbe  bistory  of  tbe  great  family 
O'Donoju." 

Tbe  girl,  frankly  amused  at  wbat  appeared 
a  turgid  compliment,  tossed  back  ber  bead  in 
a  gust  of  laugbter.  But  Grant  could  not  join 
witb  ber.  As  from  some  iceberg  veiled  in  fog 
came  to  bim  tbe  cold  feel  of  malignity  moving 
to  some  unguessed  purpose.  Was  TJrgo  plan- 
ning to  strike  at  bim  tbrougb  tbe  girl  be 
adored?  Yet  wbat  possible  obloquy  could  be 
call  up  against  Benicia,  wbose  soul  was  un- 
sullied as  tbe  winds  of  tbe  wastes?  Urgo 
spoke  on: 

**  Undoubtedly,  my  cousin,  Senor  Hickman 
bas  felt  bis  beart  snared  by  tbose  burning 
mesbes  of  yours  or  be  is  not  a  judge  of  beauty" 
— gesture  of  impatience  from  Benicia.  ^*So  it 
is  for  tbe  benefit  of  tbe  senor  as  well  as  for 
your  own,  fairest  cousin,  tbat  I  recite  tbis  leg- 
end of  tbe  red  bair  of  tbe  0  'Donoju.  Strange, 
is  it  not,  tbat  all  Sonora  knows  it  and  bas  told 
tbe  story  to  its  cbildren  for  a  bundred  years, 
yet  you,  chiquita" — a  wave  of  tbe  cigarette 
toward  tbe  girl — **wbo  sbould  be  most  inter- 
ested are  tbe  only  ignorant  one. 
[137] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

*  *  There  was  in  the  long  ago,  senor,  a  Michael 
O'Donohue — ^what  you  call  of  the  wild  Irish, 
who  had  flaming  hair  and  an  untamed  spirit. 
A  king  in  Spain  gave  him  the  whole  district  of 
Altar  for  his  estate,  and  he  came  here  to  the 
Garden  of  Solitude  with  his  Spanish  lady  and 
built  him  this  house  where  we  sit.  He  was  a 
man  who  considered  the  safety  of  his  soul,  so  he 
built  a  mission  to  the  glory  of  the  four  evan- 
gelists out  yonder  by  the  Gulf  where  the  Sand 
People  needed  the  comfort  of  the  Mother 
Church  and — '' 

**He  lived  a  life  any  one  of  his  descendants 
might  pattern  after,"  Benicia  put  in  with  a 
smile  carrying  a  sting.  Urgo  touched  his 
breast  with  delicate  fingers  and  bowed.  Then 
turning  again  to  Grant: 

^^When  the  Apaches  burned  that  mission, 
senor,  a  pious  O^Donoju  restored  it  and  the 
family,  then  numerous,  endowed  that  mission 
altar  with  much  gold  and  silver.  There  was, 
too,  a  great  string  of  pearls — pearls  with  a 
green  light,  legend  says,  which  the  Sand  People 
brought  from  the  shell  beds  of  the  Gulf  to  show 
their  piety.  You  are  following  me,  Senor 
Hickman,  ehr' 

Grant  made  no  sign.  His  eyes  were  upon 
[138] 


THE  MARK  OF  EL  ROJO 

Benicia's  face,  reading  there  a  slow  change. 
Now  she,  too,  had  begun  to  feel  a  nameless 
portent  stealing  over  her  like  the  chill  from 
hidden  ice.  The  wells  of  her  eyes  were  deeper; 
faint  colour  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks  and 
throat.  Grant,  certain  that  Urgo  was  prepar- 
ing torture  for  her  under  the  innocent  mask  of 
narrative,  was  helpless  to  intervene;  no  diver- 
sion short  of  the  work  of  fists  was  possible, 
and  that  his  weakness  denied  him. 

*^  There  was  of  that  generation  which  re- 
stored the  mission,  senor,  a  wild  youth,  true 
descendant  of  the  original  O'Donoju.  He  was 
known  from  Mexico  City  to  Tucson  as  El  Rojo 
— ^the  Red  One — for  his  hair  was  the  veritable 
colour  of  that  which  our  cousin  possesses.  And 
the  devil  rode  his  heart  with  spurs  of  fire. 
You  have  never  been  told  of  El  Rojo,  BeniciaT' 

The  girl  made  no  angwer.  Her  level  gaze 
was  a  mute  challenge.  The  little  colonel  re- 
rolled  one  of  his  eternal  cigarettes,  lighted  it 
and  drank  smoke  with  a  sensuous  inhalation. 

*'At  the  feast  of  the  re-dedication  El  Rojo, 
banished  from  the  family,  appeared  out  of 
nowhere.  Conceive  the  consternation,  senor  I 
The  red  head  of  the  deviPs  own  come  to  sancti- 
fied ground.  This  fiery  head,  so  like  our  Beni- 
[139] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

cia's,  swooping  as  a  comet  into  the  feasting 
place  of  the  family;  well  might  the  pious 
O'Donojus  be  fearful. 

**And  their  fears  were  not  without  grounds. 
Before  El  Rojo  quit  the  Mission  of  the  Four 
Evangelists  he  had  murdered  the  priest,  his 
own  uncle,  and  stolen  the  rope  of  pearls  from 
the  sacred  image  of  the  Virgin.  He  rode  away 
with  one  of  his  cousins,  a  foolish  girl  of  the 
Mayortorenas,  who  was  wife  to  him  in  the 
desert  without  priest  or  book.'* 

Urgo  let  his  voice  trail  away  as  with  a  tale 
finished.  His  teasing  glance  lingered  on  the 
faces  of  his  two  auditors.  Benicia  drew  a 
tremulous  breath  and  forced  a  smile,  as  though 
she  were  relaxing  from  strain.  On  this  cue  the 
story  teller  unexpectedy  continued: 

**But  I  hear  Senor  Hickman  ask,  'What  part 
has  all  this  ancient  legend  with  Senorita  Be- 
nicia's  red  hair?'  Patience,  senor.  We  ap- 
proach that. 

'' Legend  says  that  though  El  Rojo's  wife 
worked  upon  his  heart  and  brought  repentance, 
it  was  too  late.  He  returned  to  the  mission 
a  year  after  his  double  crime  to  restore  the 
Virgin's  pearls  to  the  sanctuary.  The  Apaches 
had  been  there  just  before  him.  The  priests 
were  slain  and  the  mission  burned.  El  Rojo 
[140] 


THIl  MARK  OF  EL  ROJO 

buried  the  pearls  within  the  stark  walls,  hoping 
the  good  God  would  accept  this  his  acknowl- 
edgment of  sin.  There  the  pearls  lie  to-day 
beyond  sight  of  man,  for  the  desert  has  blotted 
out  the  last  remnants  of  ruins. 

**But  the  sin  of  El  Rojo  was  not  so  easily  to 
be  forgotten  in  sight  of  the  good  God,  sweetest 
cousin."  Urgo  suddenly  turned  away  from 
Grant,  to  whom  he  had  -been  addressing  his 
story,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  Benicia;  almost 
there  was  the  click  of  snapping  fetters  in  his 
glance.  **You  bear  the  mark  of  it  above  your 
brow  like  the  mark  of  Cain — ^his  fire-red  hair!" 

*^Stop!"  The  girl  leaped  from  her  chair, 
blazing  wrath  in  every  line  of  her  face.  **I 
shall  not  listen — " 

'*The  grandson  of  El  Rojo  and  his  grand- 
son," Urgo  purred  on  with  his  smile  of  a  hunt- 
ing cat,  **  every  second  generation  of  the 
O'Donoju  has  one  bom  with  the  curse  of  the 
red  hair  to  tell  all  Sonora  God  does  not  forget. 
And  now  you,  the  last  of  an  accursed  family, 
its  great  estates  gone — ^its  power  gone — ^your 
own  grandfather  with  his  red  hair  shot  with 
Maximilian! — ^You  with  the  red  head — daugh- 
ter of  a  murderer — " 

A  hand  closed  over  the  collar  of  the  colonel's 
military  jacket,  gave  it  a  twist,  throttling  his 
[141] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

speech.  Grant  had  leaped  from  his  seat — a 
pain  like  a  bayonet  point  shot  through  his 
shoulder  at  the  sudden  movement — and  come 
upon  the  spiteful  little  slanderer  from  behind. 

** Gringo  assassin!''  whistled  the  little  Span- 
iard, and  his  right  hand  groped  backward  to  a 
concealed  holster.  It  fell  into  a  grip  too  strong 
to  be  broken.  Grant  was  bearing  all  his  weight 
on  the  other's  back,  for  the  instant  he  was  on 
his  feet  he  discovered  a  weakness  of  his  knees 
which  would  not  support  him.  The  impulse  to 
shut  off  Urgo's  venomous  tongue  had  been 
acted  upon  without  calculation;  now  that  he 
had  committed  himself  to  action  the  American 
realized  how  heavy  was  the  hazard  against 
him.  One  arm  useless,  all  the  other  muscles 
once  ready  to  respond  instantly  to  call  for 
action  now  seeming  to  be  palsied.  A  paralytic 
boldly  attempting  to  bell  a  wildcat;  this  was 
the  situation. 

Benicia  saw  the  American's  face  over  the 
squirming  Urgo's  shoulder;  it  wore  a  strained 
grin  which  hardly  served  to  mask  the  toll 
taken  of  weakened  muscles.  She  whirled  and 
ran  out  of  the  patio  to  call  aid  in  the  servants' 
quarters. 

Now  the  hot  fire  from  his  wound  was  spread- 
ing across  Grant's  back  and  down  his  fighting 
[142] 


THE  MARK  OF  EL  ROJO      ' 

arm  as  he  swayed  across  the  patio  half  sup- 
ported on  the  Spaniard's  back.  The  frantic 
jerkings  of  Urgo's  pistol  arm  in  Grant's  grip 
threatened  momentarily  to  loosen  the  restrain- 
ing fingers;  that  done,  the  American's  end 
would  be  speedy. 

Grant  found  himself  near  a  wall,  braced  one 
foot  against  it  and  lunged  outward.  Down 
went  both  men.  Urgo  twisted  out  from  under 
the  heavier  body,  pinning  him,  and  raised  him- 
self to  one  knee.  Grant  saw  a  tigerish  gleam 
of  triumph  in  the  other's  eyes  as  his  right 
hand  whipped  back  to  the  holster  on  his  hip. 

Some  power  more  rapid  than  thought  moved 
the  American's  sound  arm  outward  in  a  wild 
sweep  which  encompassed  a  giant  fuchsia  bush 
growing  in  a  Chinese  tea  tub.  Over  went  the 
bush  just  as  Urgo  fired  from  the  hip,  its 
branches  swishing  down  over  the  latter 's  head. 

The  bullet  went  wild.  Grant,  near  swooning 
from  the  consuming  pain  of  his  wound,  scram- 
bled for  his  enemy — went  up  with  him  when 
he  found  his  feet.  The  revolver  had  been 
knocked  from  Urgo's  hand  by  the  avalanche 
of  greenery;  a  sideways  kick  of  Grant's  foot 
sent  it  spinning  into  the  fountain. 

Now  the  wounded  man  sent  a  final  summons 
to  his  last  reservoir  of  strength.  Slowly — 
[143] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

slowly  he  forced  the  little  Spaniard  out  of 
the  patio  and  down  the  long  corridor  toward 
the  front  door  of  the  house.  When  Benicia 
came  running  with  two  husky  Indians  they 
found  Grant  with  his  man  waiting  before 
the  heavy  oaken  portal.  One  of  the  Indians 
swung  back  the  door.  Grant  gave  a  supreme 
heave  and  the  colonel  went  sprawling  like  a 
straddle  bug  out  onto  the  gravel. 
The  great  door  slammed  behind  him. 


[144] 


CHAPTER  XII 

DESEBT   SECBETS 

CONSIDER  now  the  interesting  activities 
of  Doc  Stooder,  fallen  angel  of  ^scu- 
lapius : 

On  a  March  evening  of  sunset  splendour  the 
worthy  doctor  descended  from  the  single  com- 
bination coach  and  baggage  car  which  a  suf- 
fering locomotive  drags  once  daily  from  a  junc- 
tion point  on  the  transcontinental  line  south 
through  naked  battalions  of  mountains  to  the 
ghost  town  of  Cuprico.  Once  Cuprico  was 
famous;  once  when  primitive  steam  shovels 
nibbled  at  solid  mountains  of  copper  up  back 
of  Main  Street  Cuprico  roared  with  a  life  that 
was  dizzy  and  vaunted  itself  the  rip-roarin'est 
copper  camp  in  all  the  Southwest.  But  the 
glory  that  was  Cuprico  passed,  even  as  that 
of  Rome;  to-day  they  tell  of  the  town  that 
when  its  mayor  fell  dead  on  the  post  office  steps 
his  body  remained  undiscovered  for  three  days. 

No  romantic  craving  for  revisiting  scenes  of 
his  youth  had  prompted  the  Doc  to  his  journey 
Cupricoward — ^he  had  been  its  premier  stud 
[145] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

player  in  a  day  of  glory  fifteen  years  before. 
No,  a  far  more  material  urge  had  ended  a  pe- 
riod of  fretting  in  Arizora  by  shunting  him  on 
a  westward-wending  train.  For  a  week  Bim 
Bagley,  his  partner  in  a  secret  enterprise,  had 
been  absent  on  his  quest  of  El  Doctor  Coyote 
Belly  and  the  New  York  engineer,  Bim's 
friend,  who  was  reported  to  be  wounded  and 
under  the  care  of  the  Papago  medicine  man. 
Ten  days  prior  to  Bagley 's  excursion  into 
Sonora  had  been  frittered  away  in  groping  for 
information  concerning  this  vanished  engineer. 
All  precious  time  wasted ! 

It  has,  perhaps,  become  apparent  that  Doc 
Stooder  was  not  enthusiastic  over  the  inclusion 
of  Grant  Hickman,  the  Easterner,  in  his  golden 
scheme  of  treasure  trove  in  desert  sands.  The 
stubborn  refusal  of  Bim  Bagley  to  move  with- 
out this  fellow  Hickman's  being  party  to  the 
enterprise  had  prevented  a  start  on  the  expe- 
dition for  the  Mission  of  the  Four  Evangelists 
six  weeks  before.  The  canny  physician — ^whose 
share  in  the  joint  endeavour  was  to  be  his  exclu- 
sive information  concerning  the  whereabouts 
of  the  Lost  Mission — possessed  in  large  degree 
that  sense  of  divination  bestowed  upon  folk  of 
the  desert  which  gives  their  imagination  wings 
over  the  horizon  of  time.  Each  day  of  delay 
[146] 


DESERT  SECRETS 

he  read  a  day  to  the  advantage  of  Don  Padraic 
O'Donoju,  certain  sure  as  he  was  that  the 
master  of  the  desert  oasis  had  come  by  knowl- 
edge of  his  own  treasure  hunt  intent  through 
mysterious  desert  channels. 

The  vision  of  gold  and  pearls  Doc  Stooder 
had  seen  in  the  depths  of  raw  alcohol  on  a 
night  of  dreaming  in  his  office  had  become  a 
goad.  So  he  came  to  Cuprico,  the  ghost  town 
not  seventy  miles  away  from  the  supposed  site 
of  the  buried  mission;  his  intent  was  to  pick 
up  his  Papago  informant,  who  lived  midway 
between  Cuprico  and  the  Border,  and,  as 
Stooder  happily  phrased  his  purpose,  **give 
things  a  look-see."  If  his  luck  was  with  him 
and  he  should  stumble  onto  the  mission  during 
this  solo  game  so  much  the  better.  Conscience 
nor  maxims  of  fair  play  were  any  part  of  the 
doctor's  moral  anatomy. 

The  Doc  upon  his  arrival  did  not  pervade 
Cuprico 's  centres  of  evening  society — the 
Golden  Star  pool  hall  and  soft  drinks  emporium 
and  the  back  room  of  Garcia 's  drug  store — 
for  reasons  sufficiently  potent  to  merit  a  para- 
graph of  explanation. 

Years  before,  when  he  was  a  resident  of  the 
mining  camp  and  had  money,  Doc  Stooder  took 
unto  himself  a  Mexican  wife  who  had  a  passion 
[147] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

for  diamonds.  Mrs.  Apolinaria  Stooder  had 
a  way  with  her  which  seemed  to  win  deep  into 
the  atrophied  heart  of  her  spouse,  and  he 
showered  her  with  the  stones  of  her  choice. 
No  woman  from  Yuma  to  Tucson — so  legend 
still  recites — ** packed  so  much  ice"  as  Doc 
Stooder 's.  Then  in  an  epidemic  of  typhoid, 
which  the  Doc  combated  with  the  heroism  of 
a  saint,  Apolinaria  died. 

Alone  and  with  his  own  hands  her  sorrow- 
ing widower  gave  her  sepulchre  somewhere 
amid  the  gaunt  hills  surrounding  the  town. 
He  let  it  become  known  after  the  interment 
that  since  Apolinaria  loved  her  diamonds  so 
he  had  buried  them  with  her,  adding  for  good 
measure  of  gossip  that  he  figured  their  total 
value  at  round  $5000.  Immediately  and  for 
several  years  thereafter  all  the  prospectors 
for  fifty  miles  about  gave  up  their  search  for 
dip  and  strike  and  prospected  for  Mrs.  Apoli- 
naria Stooder.  Failing  to  find  so  much  as  a 
** colour"  of  her  diamonds,  the  profession  drew 
the  conclusion  that  Doc  Stooder  was  a  monu- 
mental liar.    His  popularity  waned  accordingly. 

Shadows    were    lengthening    when    Stooder 

tooled  a  rented  desert  skimmer  out  of  Cupri- 

co's  single  garage  and  brought  it  to  a  stop 

before  the  general  store.    Into  the  wagon  box 

[148] 


DESERT  SECRETS 

behind  the  seat  went  his  bed  roll,  brought  from 
Arizora  and  containing  certain  glassware 
whose  contents  were  more  precious  to  their 
owner  than  life  itself ;  boxes  of  grocery  staples ; 
extra  cans  of  oil  and  gasoline.  Twc  big  can- 
teens on  the  running  board  were  filled.  Plugs 
of  ciewing  tobacco  heavy  and  broad  as  slate 
shingles  were  stowed  in  the  tool  box.  In  all 
this  preparation  the  doctor's  long  legs  cali- 
pered  themselves  from  counter  to  car  with 
remarkable  efficiency. 

**Goin'  on  a  little  prospecting  trip?"  the 
storekeeper  had  volunteered  when  the  Doc  first 
commenced  his  stowing.    No  answer. 

**Figgerin'  on  a  little  pasear  down  'crost  the 
Line?"  hopefully  from  that  worthy  as  he 
helped  noose  the  tarpaulin  over  the  dunnage. 
The  Doc's  head  was  buried  above  the  ears 
among  the  engine 's  naked  cylinders  and  he  pro- 
fessed not  to  hear.  When  Stooder  was  seated 
at  the  wheel  and  the  storekeeper  had  the  edge 
of  the  final  pail  of  water  over  the  radiator  vent 
he  feebly  flung  out  his  last  grappling  hook : 

**  Reckon  you  might  be  selling  Bibles  to  the 
Papagoes." 

**Come  here,  friend,"  sternly  from  the 
doctor.  **Now  I  give  you  the  way  inside  if 
you'll  promise  to  keep  it  mum."  The  store- 
[149] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

keeper  hopped  around  to  lean  his  ear  over  the 
wheel  in  gleeful  anticipation. 

'*I'm  a-goin'  south  from  here  to  give  a  Chi- 
nese lady  a  lesson  on  the  ocarina.    So  long ! ' ' 

When  the  Doc  skittered  down  the  brief 
Main  Street  and  out  onto  the  thread  of  grey 
caliche  that  was  the  road  to  the  mysterious 
south  all  of  the  west  was  a-roil  with  the  final 
palette  scrapings  of  the  sunset — umber,  pale 
lemon  and,  high  above  the  mountains  standing 
black  as  obsidian,  cirrus  clouds  dyed  a  fugitive 
cherry.  Ahead  showed  the  ragged  gate  into 
the  valley  of  El  Infiernillo — the  Little  Hell — 
place  of  bleak  distances  between  mountain 
ranges  bare  as  sheet  iron;  place  of  unimagi- 
nable thirst  when  summer  sun  hurls  reflected 
heat  back  from  burning  walls.  Beyond  El 
Infiernillo  just  a  hint  of  peaks  like  fretwork 
spires  marked  destination  for  the  doctor;  there 
at  the  foot  of  the  Growler  range  and  where 
the  Desert  of  Altar  washes  across  the  imagi- 
nary line  between  two  nations,  lay  the  land  of 
his  desire.  Somewhere  on  the  Road  of  the 
Dead  Men  passing  through  that  savage  waste 
perchance  a  nubbin  of  weathered  'dobe  wall 
lifted  a  few  inches  above  the  sand  to  mark 
treasure  of  gold  and  pearls  below;  maybe 
naught  but  a  charred  timber  end  concealed  by 
[150] 


DESERT  SECRETS 

a  patch  of  greasewood  and  crying  a  secret  to 
the  ears  of  the  searcher. 

Gold  and  pearls — ^pearls  and  gold!  The 
Doc's  rapt  eye  caught  the  colours  of  sacred 
treasure  in  the  dyes  of  the  sunset  and  read 
them  for  a  portent  of  success. 

**Me,  I'm  a-goin'  just  slosh  around  in 
wealth !  Doc  Stooder,  the  man  with  the  diner o 
— ^that's  me!"  The  gaunt  head  behind  the 
wheel  of  the  desert  skimmer  was  tilted  back 
and  A.  Stooder,  M.  D.,  carolled  his  expectations 
at  the  new  stars.  Then  he  reined  in  his  gas 
snorter  long  enough*  to  fumble  with  his  bed 
roll  in  the  wagon  box.  Out  came  a  square 
bottle  of  fluid  fire,  such  as  passes  currency  with 
the  international  bootleggers  in  the  Southwest. 
The  Doc  drank  heartily  to  the  promise  spread 
across  the  western  heavens.  The  bottle  was 
tucked  in  a  handy  coat  pocket  for  future 
reference. 

Nights  in  the  desert  along  the  Line  are 
psychic.  They  are  not  of  the  world  of  arc 
lights,  elevated  trains  and  the  winking  jewels  of 
white  ways.  In  that  world  man  has  so  com- 
pletely surrounded  himself  with  the  tinsels  of 
his  own  making,  the  noise  of  his  own  multiplied 
squeakings  and  chatterings,  that  he  comes  to  ac- 
cept the  vault  above  him  as  under  the  care  of 
.      [151] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

the  city  parks  department.  His  little  tent  of 
night  is  no  higher  than  the  towers  of  his  sky- 
scrapers.   But  in  the  desert  it  is  different. 

Emptiness  of  day  is  increased  an  hundred 
fold  at  dark  because  it  leaps  up  to  lose  its 
frontiers  behind  the  stars.  Silence  of  the  day 
is  intensified  to  such  a  degree  that  the  inner 
ear  catches  a  humming  of  supernal  machinery 
in  the  heavens.  The  eye  measures  perspectives 
between  the  near  and  far  planets.  And  the 
soul  of  man  hearkens  to  strange  voices;  sigh- 
ings  from  the  pale  mouths  of  the  desert  scrubs, 
bom  to  a  servitude  of  thirst;  whisperings 
passed  from  mountain  top  to  mountain  top; 
faint  stirrings  of  the  earth  relaxed  from  the 
torsion  of  the  sun. 

Doc  Stooder,  desert  familiar  as  he  was, 
never  could  blunt  his  senses  to  this  emptiness  of 
night  in  the  wastes.  It  awed  him,  left  him 
itching  under  half-perceived  conceptions  of  the 
infinite.  Hence  the  bottle  carried  handily  in 
his  pocket.  From  time  to  time  as  he  careered 
over  the  road  faintly  marked  by  the  feeble 
sparks  of  his  headlights  he  braked  down  to 
have  a  swig.  The  more  he  felt  lifted  above 
sombre  unrealities  about  him  the  greater  his 
impulse  to  break  into  song.  The  iron  gate  of 
El  Infiernillo  heard  his  roundelay. 
[152] 


DESERT  SECRETS 

Miles  unreeled  behind  him.  Dim  shapes  of 
mountains  dissolved  to  new  contours  and  were 
left  behind.  The  Doc  came  to  a  sharp  east- 
ward turning  of  the  road  but  kept  straight 
ahead  out  over  the  untracked  flats  to  south- 
ward. He  knew  his  way ;  the  packed  sand  gave 
him  as  good  traction  as  the  road.  Down  and 
down  into  the  unpeopled  wilderness  of  sand- 
hills and  buttes  bored  the  twin  sparks  of  the 
little  car. 

Another  shift  of  direction  and  the  Doc  was 
teetering  up  a  narrow  canon  between  high 
mountain  walls.  His  course  was  a  dry  wash, 
boulder  strewn.  Only  instinct  of  a  desert  driver 
saved  him  from  piling  up  on  some  rough  block 
of  detritus.  Sand  traps  forced  him  to  shove 
the  engine  into  low,  and  the  snarling  of  the 
exhaust  was  multiplied  from  the  canon  walls. 

A  light  flickered  far  ahead.  A  dog  barked. 
The  car  wallowed  and  snuffled  out  of  the  wash 
to  come  to  a  halt  before  several  silhouettes  of 
huts.  People,  roused  from  sleep  by  the  car's 
clamour,  stood  ringed  about  in  curiosity;  one 
held  a  torch  of  reeds. 

**Ho,   Guadalupe!"   Doc   Stooder  bellowed. 
A  solid  looking  Indian  with  a  mat  of  tousled 
iron-grey  hair  stood  out  under  the  torch  light, 
grinning  a  welcome  to  **E1  Doctor." 
[153] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

*  *  Show  me  a  place  to  sleep, ' '  commanded  the 
visitor,  and  the  one  called  Guadalupe  carried 
the  doctor's  bed-roll  to  his  own  hut,  of  which 
squaw  and  children  were  speedily  dispossessed. 
So  the  good  doctor  from  Arizora  slept  the  rest 
of  the  night  in  the  rancheria  of  the  Sand 
People,  last  remnant  of  that  Papago  family 
for  which  the  Mission  of  the  Four  Evangelists 
was  reared  to  save  souls.  In  &ve  hours  the 
Doc  had  covered  by  gasoline  what  it  would 
have  cost  Guadalupe  of  the  Sand  People  as 
many  days  in  painful  plodding. 

Morning  saw  the  rancheria  in  a  ferment  of 
excitement  and  Doc  Stooder  viciously  tyran- 
nical in  reaction  from  his  accustomed  alcoholic 
night.  Guadalupe  found  himself  in  a  difficult 
position.  Once  in  a  moment  of  gratitude  when 
the  white  doctor  had  snatched  his  squaw  from 
the  tortures  of  asthma — the  miracle  had 
occurred  in  Guadalupe's  summer  camp  near 
Arizora — the  Indian  had  babbled  his  knowledge 
of  the  buried  mission,  its  treasure.  But  he 
had  not  counted  upon  this  unexpected  appear- 
ance of  the  white  doctor,  demanding  to  be  led 
to  the  place  of  wealth.  It  is  common  with  all 
the  Southwestern  Indians  to  believe  naught 
but  ill  luck  can  follow  any  revelation  to  a  white 
man  of  the  desert's  hidden  gold;  some  say  the 
[154] 


i 


DESERT  SECRETS 

early  padres,  themselves  consistent  hoarders, 
inculcated  this  lesson.  With  the  eyes  of  his 
fellow  villagers  disapprovingly  upon  him, 
Guadalupe  first  attempted  evasion. 

Stooder  in  an  ominous  quiet  heard  him 
through.  Then  without  a  word  he  opened  a 
small  medicine  chest  he  carried  in  his  bed-roll 
and  took  therefrom  two  tightly  folded  pieces 
of  paper — ^blue  and  white.  While  Guadalupe 
and  the  rest  watched,  round-eyed,  the  doctor 
made  quick  passes  with  each  bit  of  paper  over 
the  mouth  of  a  small  water  olla.  The  surface 
of  the  water  sizzed  and  boiled. 

Guadalupe,  two  shades  whiter,  babbled  his 
willingness  to  go  at  once  to  the  place  where  the 
mission  lay  hidden. 

** Prime  cathartic  for  the  mind,"  grunted 
the  Doc,  and  he  tuned  his  engine  for  the  trip. 

They  were  off  down  the  canon  and  into  the 
yellow  basin  of  El  Infiernillo.  Guadalupe,  rid- 
ing for  the  first  time  in  the  white  man's  smell- 
wagon,  gripped  his  seat  with  the  delicious  fear 
of  a  child  on  a  merry-go-round.  He  watched 
the  movements  of  the  doctor's  foot  on  the 
gear-shift,  marvelling  that  the  beast  concealed 
in  pipes  and  rods  answered  each  downward 
thrust  with  a  roar.  Earth  spun  under  him  as 
if  Elder  Brother  himself,  master  of  all  created 
[155] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

things,  had  a  hold  on  it  and  were  pulling  it  all 
one  way. 

Down  and  down  into  the  untracked  miles  of 
Altar.  A  single  iron  post  on  a  hill  marking 
the  Line.  The  sierra  of  Pinacate  cinder-red 
in  the  south  for  a  beacon.  Eight  and  left  sheet 
iron  ranges  with  stipples  of  rust  where  the 
camisa  grew.  Mirage  quivering  into  nothing- 
ness just  as  its  false  waters  were  ready  to  be 
parted  by  the  car's  wheels. 

They  came  upon  an  east-and-west  track  in 
the  sand — the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men — and 
turned  westward  upon  it.  Away  off  to  the 
north  and  east  a  spiral  dust  cloud  walked 
across  the  wastes  along  the  skirts  of  the  moun- 
tains. Guadalupe  pointed  to  it  with  an  ejacu- 
lation in  his  own  tongue.  A  sign — a  sign  I 
There  was  the  place  of  the  mission! 

The  Doc  felt  his  internals  quiver  in  expecta- 
tion. Prickles  of  excitement  played  in  fin- 
gers that  gripped  the  wheel.  Autoniatically 
he  began  to  hum  an  ancient  bar-room  ditty. 

The  Papago  indicated  where  he  should  turn 
oif  the  road  in  the  direction  of  a  great  gap 
in  the  mountains,  into  which  the  desert  flowed 
as  a  sea.  Here  the  mesquite  lifted  from  its 
crouch  and  flourished  in  a  five-foot  growth — 
true  index  of  hidden  waters.  The  car  made 
[156] 


DESERT  SECRETS 

hard  going,  what  with  brittle  twigs  that  caught 
at  its  tires  and  the  cholla  creeping  like  a  spined 
snake  to  threaten  punctures.  At  his  guide's 
word  Doc  Stooder  stopped.  Both  scrambled 
out. 

Before  moving  a  step  the  Doc  must  have  a 
ceremonial  drink,  a  preliminary  he  did  not  deem 
necessary  to  share  with  Guadalupe.  The  man's 
big  hands  trembled  as  he  raised  the  bottle  to 
his  lips ;  his  eyes  were  shining  with  gold  lust. 

Guadalupe  stood  for  several  minutes  slowly 
swinging  his  head  from  landmark  to  landmark, 
his  eyes  following  calculated  lines  through  the 
scrub.  Then  he  commenced  a  slow  pacing 
through  the  close-set  aisles  of  the  greasewood 
and  cactus,  bearing  in  a  wide  circle.  He  peered 
into  the  core  of  each  shrub,  kicked  at  every 
naked  stub  of  root  and  branch  appearing  above 
the  surface.  The  Doc,  cursing  and  humming 
alternately,  was  right  at  his  shoulder. 

An  hour  passed — two.  The  sun,  now  high, 
burned  mercilessly.  Still  Guadalupe  pursued 
a  narrowing  circle  through  the  scrub.  Of  a 
sudden  the  Indian  gurgled  and  dropped  to  his 
knees  beside  a  salt-bush.  He  whipped  out  his 
knife  and  began  hacking  at  the  tough  stubs  of 
branches  near  the  soil.  The  Doc,  slavering  in 
his  excitement,  dropped  beside  him  and  looked 
[157] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

into  the  heart  of  the  salt-bush.  He  saw  noth- 
ing but  a  rounded  slab  of  rock. 

Guadalupe  finished  his  knife  work  and  started 
to  dig  with  his  hands.  Terrier-like  he  pawed  a 
hole  away  from  what  Stooder  had  taken  for  a 
rock.  The  smooth  black  surface  began  to  curve 
outward  in  a  form  too  symmetrical  for  nature 's 
work;  it  was  rounded  and  gradually  flaring. 

Guadalupe  dug  on.  Blood  pounded  in  the 
Doc's  ears.  Snatches  of  song  trickled  from 
his  lips. 

Suddenly  patience  exploded.  Stooder  pushed 
the  Papago  to  his  haunches  and  threw  his  own 
body  full  length  into  the  hole  dug.  His  arms 
embraced  a  flaring  shape  of  metal.  His  eyes 
fell  upon  faint  ridges  and  lines,  like  lettering. 
He  spat  upon  the  spot  and  rubbed  it  clean  of 
clinging  soil. 


Gloeia  Dei  et  Mund 

Phillipus  Rex 
Anno    Dom. XXIV 


**The  bell!     The  mission  belli"   screamed 
the  Doc. 


[158] 


CHAPTER  Xni 

CROSSCUERENTS 

A  N  hour  after  the  sun  had  set  on  the  day  of 
-^^  Colonel  Urgo's  humiliation  at  the  Casa 
O'Donoju  Quelele  tooled  his  car  into  the  avenue 
of  palms  at  the  end  of  the  long  return  journey 
from  Magdalena,  on  the  railroad.  With  him 
were  his  master,  Don  Padraic,  and  an  Ameri- 
can stranger,  Bim  Bagley  of  Arizora. 

Fate  had  played  capriciously  with  Bim. 
When  he  set  out  from  Arizora  on  the  quest  of 
his  pal  Grant  Hickman  it  was  only  on  the  bare 
report  that  the  man  was  seriously  wounded  and 
under  the  care  of  El  Doctor  Coyote  Belly  at 
Babinioqui,  south  of  the  Line.  Near  the  end 
of  his  journey  his  car  had  wrecked  itself  beyond 
repair  hard  by  Magdalena;  a  mule  had  been 
requisitioned  to  carry  him  over  the  mountains 
to  the  home  of  the  medicine  man ;  once  there  he 
was  as  far  from  the  end  of  his  quest  as  ever. 

For  grey  old  Coyote  Belly  lied  unblinkingly. 
He  knew  nothing  of  a  wounded  man.  Per- 
suasion of  words  nor  the  chink  of  silver  dollars 
[159] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

availed  to  budge  him  from  a  trust  he  con- 
ceived to  be  joined  between  himself  and  the 
master  of  the  Casa  O'Donoju. 

The  hours  following  the  scene  in  the  patio 
and  the  sudden  gust  of  action  concluding  the 
visit  of  Hamilcar  Urgo  had  been  trying  ones 
for  Grant.  Spent  as  he  was  by  the  struggle  with 
the  Spaniard,  he  had  suffered  himself  to  be 
half -carried  to  his  room  by  the  Indian  servants. 
Benicia,  accompanying  him  to  the  door,  had 
permitted  her  hand  to  rest  in  his  at  farewell; 
a  clasp  tried  to  tell  what  the  storm  in  her  soul 
denied  speech.  The  girPs  face  was  etched  by 
suffering;  sacrificed  pride  and  a  shadow  of 
some  deep  fear  lay  heavy  in  her  eyes  and  the 
drawn  lines  about  her  mouth.  The  wound  made 
by  her  spiteful  suitor  was  deeper  than  Grant 
could  conceive. 

Alone  on  his  bed  he  conned  over  the  tale 
Urgo  had  told.  Unfamiliar  as  he  was  with  the 
Latin  temperament,  the  belief  of  the  romance 
peoples  in  the  very  reality  of  inherited  curse 
and  whips  of  Nemesis  pursuing  innocent  gen- 
erations, yet  the  raw  tragedy  of  the  story  fired 
his  imagination.  He  tried  to  put  himself  in 
the  place  of  the  girl  he  loved  with  all  her  pride 
of  race  and  family;  to  feel  with  her  the  stripes 
of  scorn  the  despicable  Urgo  had  laid  on.  El 
[160] 


CEOSSCUERENTS 

Rojo's  desecration  of  the  mission  sanctuary  by 
an  act  of  blood;  his  flight  into  the  desert  with 
the  pearls  of  the  Virgin  and  a  girl,  *^who  was 
wife  to  him  without  priest  or  book'*;  the  blot- 
ting of  the  mission  from  sight  of  man ;  all  this 
cycle  of  tragedy  of  the  dim  past  linked  to  a 
gloriously  vital  creature  of  the  present  by  the 
chance  colour  of  her  hair.  The  thing  was  mon- 
strously absurd!    And  yet — 

A  knock  at  the  door  and  Don  Padraic  entered. 
He  turned  to  beckon  some  one  behind  him.  In 
the  candlelight  Grant  saw  the  head  of  a  giant 
stoop  to  avoid  the  lintel. 

*'Bim  Bagley!'' 

The  desert  man  crossed  to  the  bed  by  a  sin- 
gle wide  step  and  threw  both  arms  about  Grant 
in  a  bear  hug. 

**You  dam'd  old  snoozer.  You  dam'd  old 
snoozer!''  was  all  Bim  could  give  in  greeting. 
Don  Padraic  stepped  outside  and  closed  the 
door  on  the  reunion.  Bim  let  his  friend's  body 
lightly  down  on  the  pillows  and  sat  back  to 
grin  into  Grant's  eyes. 

**I  sure  been  bumin'  the  ground  all  over 
North  Sonora  on  your  trail,"  he  rumbled. 
**You're  the  original  little  Mexican  jumping 
bean." 

'*  Jumped  right  into  a  flock  of  trouble,  old 
[161] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

side  partner,  with  more  right  beyond  the  front 
line  Waiting  for  me.  The  reserves  seem  to  have 
come  up  just  the  right  time.''  Grant  gave  his 
paPs  great  paw  a  squeeze.  Bim  roared  assur- 
ance: 

**  Reserves  got  all  bogged  down  through  fail- 
ure in  liaison — ^just  like  the  days  of  the  Big 
Show.  But  they're  with  you  now  from  hell  to 
breakfast,  young  fellah;  an'  I  think  I  know  the 
name  of  the  outfit  we  got  to  trim.  Name's 
Hamilcar  Urgo,  huh  ? ' '  His  buoyant  spirit  was 
wine  to  Grant;  the  very  animal  force  of  him 
seemed  to  fill  the  old  room. 

**Ran  acrost  that  li'l  sidewinder  this  after- 
noon when  the  old  Don  was  bringing  me  up  here 
from  Magdalena.  Just  our  two  cars  on  the 
road.  He  pulls  up  when  we're  makin'  to  pass 
him — face  on  him  just  as  pleasant  as  a  pole- 
cat's. Your  friend  the  Don  passes  the  time  of 
day  courteous  as  you  please. 

**  *I  had  the  honour  to  visit  your  daughter 
this  day,'  whinnies  this  Urgo  gazabo;  of  course 
he  speaks  in  Spanish,  which  is  nuts  for  me. 
*And  I  discover  she  is  entertaining  a  convict 
who  escaped  from  a  chain  gang.'  "  Bim 
grinned.  **I  take  it  that  convict  is  my  li'l 
friend  from  Noo  Yawk." 
[162] 


CROSSCUERENTS 

Grant  nodded.  The  other  wagged  his  head 
in  a  grotesque  mockery  of  grief. 

**  *My  daughter  and  I  are  entertaining  an 
American  gentleman  who  was  wounded  on  the 
Hermosillo  road,'  your  Don  answers,  civil 
enough.  *  While  he  is  a  guest  in  our  house  we 
naturally  ask  no  questions.' 

*'  ^Then,'  snaps  this  Urgo  boy,  *I  must  in- 
form you  that  for  harbouring  an  escaped  crim- 
inal you  are  responsible  before  the  law.  The 
rurales  will  visit  your  house  and  it  is  for  me 
to  say  whether  they  take  you  as  well  as  the 
gringo  convict.'  " 

Grant  started.  Here  was  a  phase  of  the  sit- 
uation he  had  not  guessed:  that  his  courteous 
host  might  be  made  to  suffer  for  Urgo's  rage 
and  jealousy. 

Eagerly,  ^'What  did  Don  Padraic  say  to 
that?" 

'*He  says  something  to  the  effect  that  the 
laws  of  hospitality  were  above  any  this-here 
Urgo  might  care  to  dig  up,  the  same  I  call 
being  mighty  white  of  your  Don  Whosis  with 
the  Irish  twist  to  his  name."  Bim  broke  off 
to  shoot  a  quizzical  look  into  his  friend's  eyes. 
**Say,  brother,  what  you  been  doin'  to  this 
little  black-an'-tan  stingin'  lizard  to  make  him 
[163] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

ride  your  trail  so  hard?  You  a  tenderfoot  an' 
riding  your  herd  across  the  fence  line  of  the 
biggest  little  man  in  the  whole  Sonora  govern- 
ment!" 

Grant  grinned  childishly.  **Well,  I  threw 
him  out  of  the  front  door  here  this  afternoon 
for  one  thing  and — " 

Admiration  beamed  from  every  wind  wrinkle 
about  the  Arizonan's  eyes.  **Sho!  You  did 
that?  Now  I  call  that  steppin'  some  for  a  man 
with  a  bullet  through  him.  I  thought  from  the 
gen'ral  slant  to  Senor  Urgo's  manner  when  he 
met  up  with  us  some  one'd  been  working  on  his 
frame  somewhere.  He  just  sweat  T.N.T.  But 
why  did  you  crawl  him  ? ' ' 

**He  insulted  Senorita  O'Donoju,"  was 
Grant's  answer.  Bim  lowered  the  lid  of  one 
eye  owlishly  and  his  gaunt  face  was  pulled 
down  to  a  comic  aspect  of  concern. 

**Uh-huh;  now  I  begin  to  get  the  drift.  Old 
Doc  Stooder  was  right  when  he  says  there's 
the  shoo-shoo  of  a  skirt  somewheres  in  your 
big  disappearing  act.  Boy — boy!  I  had  you 
figgered  for  the  original  old  hermit  coyote  who 
travels  the  meat  trail  alone.  No  wonder  li'l 
Urge's  all  coiled  up  for  the  strike,  you  aimin' 
to  run  him  out  on  his  girl." 

Before  Grant  could  head  off  his  friend  on  a 
[164] 


CROSSCUERENTS 

topic  that  brought  sudden  embarrassment  to 
him  'Cepcion  and  a  second  servant  entered  with 
a  spread  table.  Bim  tucked  pillows  under  his 
friend's  shoulders  with  clumsy  tenderness, 
then  in  mellow  candlelight  they  ate  and  talked. 
Both  were  bursting  with  questions  to  be 
asked,  but  Bim  claimed  the  right  of  priority 
by  virtue  of  his  ten  days'  blind  search  through 
the  country  south  of  the  Line.  At  his  demand 
Grant  gave  him  the  whole  story  of  his  feud 
with  Colonel  Urgo,  from  the  meeting  at  El 
Paso  down  to  the  afternoon's  events  in  the 
patio.  Lively  play  of  sympathies  about  the 
Arizonan's  features  followed  the  narrative  of 
the  dreadful  march  in  the  chain  gang  and 
Grant's  burst  for  freedom  under  the  rifles  of 
the  rurales.  The  little  his  friend  left  unsaid 
Bim  was  shrewd  enough  to  supply;  he  guessed 
the  story  of  Grant's  thraldom  under  the  witch- 
ery of  the  desert  girl  and  found  it  good. 

When  the  man  on  the  pillows  began  recital 
of  what  had  occurred  just  a  few  hours  before — 
Urgo's  savage  assault  on  a  girl's  pride  through 
the  story  of  El  Rojo's  impiety — the  big  man 
by  the  bed  stiffened  in  intensified  interest.  He 
heard  Grant  through  with  scarce  concealed  im- 
patience. 

**But,  man,  that  was  the  Mission  of  the  Four 
[165] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Evangelists  Urgo  was  telling  of!''  explosively 
from  Bim.    Grant  nodded  confirmation. 

^^Why,  that's  the  Doc's  big  proposition — our 
proposition!" 

Grant  looked  his  puzzlement.  The  other's 
excitement  swirled  him  on: 

**That  proves  what  the  Doc's  Papago  told 
him.  Pearls  buried  there.  An'  gold — lots  of 
gold,  the  Papago  says.  I  had  a  sneaking  hunch 
all  the  time  it  might  be  one  of  Stooder's  wild 
dreams,  but  this  story  proves  we're  on  the 
right  track." 

**Do  you  mean — ?" 

''Sure !  That's  what  I  brought  you  out  from 
the  East  for — to  help  us  uncover  this  Lost 
Mission,  as  folks  in  Arizona  call  it.  Doc  Stoo- 
der's such  a  cagey  old  monkey  he  wouldn't  let 
me  put  on  paper  just  what  I  wanted  you  to 
whack  in  on.  Now  you  got  it  all — the  pure 
quill.    Isn't  it  a  whale  of  a  proposition!" 

Though  Grant's  surface  perception  had 
grasped  the  full  import  of  his  friend's  words 
some  sub-strata  of  mind,  or  of  heart,  stub- 
bornly refused  to  be  convinced  that  he  had 
heard  aright.     He  groped  for  words: 

''You  say  you  brought  me  out  here  to  help 
you  uncover  pearls  and  gold  that  belong  to  the 
Church?" 

[166] 


CROSSCUERENTS 

**Why  not?"  A  subtle  note  of  pugnacity  in 
the  other's  speech.  ^^The  stuff's  been  lyin' 
buried  for  a  hundred  an'  fifty  years  more  or 
less.  The  priests  Ve  never  lifted  a  finger  to 
find  it,  though  slews  of  prospectors  have  rooted 
round  trying  to  uncover  this  cache." 

**But  the  old  O'Donojus  built  this  church  and 
endowed  it  with  that  very  treasure  you  want 
to  dig  for,"  Grant  persisted.  **What  about 
their  rights?" 

He  did  not  hear  Bim's  arguments.  Instead 
he  was  conning  over  the  story  of  the  bane  of 
the  house  of  O'Donoju.  Before  his  eyes  was 
the  face  of  the  girl  he  loved,  as  he  had  last 
seen  it,  deeply  graven  with  tragedy. 

Grant's  hand  went  out  in  a  comrade's  clasp. 
"Bim,  old  man,  count  me  out  on  this  thing.  I 
couldn't  consider  it  for  a  minute." 


[167] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

REVELATION 

**pvON  PADEAIC'S  compliments,  and  he 
^-^  awaits  the  pleasure  of  his  guests'  com- 
pany in  the  music  room  if  the  sick  seiior  feels 
ahle.'^  It  was  'Cepcion's  soft  patois  that  inter- 
rupted Bim  Bagley's  explosion  of  pained  sur- 
prise in  mid-flight.  Grant  gave  him  a  smile 
which  interpreted  the  diversion  as  something  to 
his  friend's  advantage  and,  leaning  on  Bim's 
shoulder,  followed  the  servant  to  the  great 
room  in  the  centre  of  the  house. 

A  fire  burned  in  the  cavernous  fireplace,  for 
spring  nights  in  Altar  have  a  chill;  candles  in 
dull  silver  wall  sconces  tempered  the  red  light. 
The  vast  room  was  so  peopled  with  dancing 
shadows  from  the  antique  furnishings  that  the 
tall  man  in  white  and  the  girl  who  advanced 
to  greet  the  guests  appeared  to  be  moving  in 
a  company  of  hooded  monks. 

**  'Nicia,  Senor  Bagley,  the  friend  of  our 
friend."      Don    Padraic  bowed  to  Bim,  who 
crooked  his  lank  body  with  surprising  grace. 
[168] 


KEVELATION 

''And  I  am  a  fiiend  of  you  two,"  came  Bim's 
forthright  answer,  **  since  you  have  treated 
Grant  Hickman  so  kindly.  He  is  the  salt  of  the 
earth.'' 

Don  Padraic  indicated  seats  before  the  and- 
irons. Benicia  chose  a  low  settle  by  the  side 
of  the  great  winged  chair  where  her  father 
seated  himself.  Grant  saw  shadows  beneath 
her  eyes  where  the  firelight  played  upon  her 
features,  almost  waxen  in  uncertain  light.  The 
glint  of  copper  in  the  piled-up  mass  of  her  hair 
was  like  summer  lightning  in  clouds.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  Grant  was  disappointed  in  the 
hope  he  might  still  find  the  soul  of  the  girl  re- 
vealed there  as  it  had  been  that  afternoon  in  the 
unguarded  moment  when  Benicia  gave  him 
wordless  thanks.  He  guessed  she  had  told 
Don  Padraic  of  the  incident  in  the  patio  and 
that  what  had  passed  between  father  and  daugh- 
ter thereafter  had  been  a  drain  on  the  emo- 
tions of  both. 

Don  Padraic  turned  to  Grant  with  more  than 
perfunctory  concern  in  speech  and  glance. 
**  Your  health,  senor?  I  fear  that  certain  events 
of  the  day,  of  which  my  daughter  has  told  me — " 

*  *  Please ! ' '    Grant  was  quick  to  interrupt.    '  *  I 
am  feeling  fit  as  I  could  be,  thanks  to  the  care- 
ful nursing  I  have  had  in  your  house." 
.      [169] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

The  thing  that  had  been  left  unspoken  by 
both  weighed  like  an  unlaid  spirit  on  the  silence 
that  followed.  Each  of  the  four  before  the  fire 
had  little  thought  save  for  the  chapter  of  cir- 
cumstance left  unconcluded  by  one  who  had 
departed  the  Garden  a  few  hours  before,  swol- 
len with  the  venom  of  outraged  pride.  It  was 
Don  Padraic  who  brushed  aside  reserve : 

**Senor  Hickman,  I  may  speak  before  your 
friend,  who  must  share  your  confidence.  He 
will  pardon  my  bringing  personal  affairs  be- 
fore him.  I  can  not  postpone  my  thanks — my 
very  sincere  thanks — for  what  you  did  this  aft- 
ernoon.   My  daughter  was  defenceless." 

'^And  I — "  Benicia  began,  but  Grant  quickly 
put  in : 

**Will  you  not  consider  that  I  was  really 
serving  my  own  private  ends — a  score  to  be 
evened  between  Colonel  Urgo  and  myself?" 

Bim  covered  a  reminiscent  grin  with  a  broad 
palm  as  Grant  hurried  on,  eager  to  withhold 
from  the  girl  opportunity  to  speak  her  thanks. 

''When  I  was  brought  here  I  thought  it  best 
to  keep  silent  on  the  matter  of  my  own  private 
grudge  against  this  man.  But  now  that  it  ap- 
pears we  all  have  common  cause  against  him 
I  think  I  may  speak.  Urgo  himself  was  re- 
sponsible for  my  being  shot." 
[170] 


EEVELATION 

He  saw  Benicia's  eyes  grow  wide,  read  the 
surprise  that  parted  her  lips  in  a  breathed  ex- 
clamation. He  thought  he  saw,  too,  just  the 
flash  of  something  no  eyes  but  his  own  could 
understand,  and  he  was  glad.  Briefly  he 
sketched  the  incident  of  the  gambling  palace 
in  Sonizona,  his  encounter  with  Urgo  in  the 
office  of  the  jail,  the  march  with  the  chain 
gang. 

'*And  so,"  Grant  concluded,  '^Colonel  Urgo 
found  a  dead  man  come  to  life  when  he  saw 
me  in  the  patio  to-day.  When  Senorita  0  'Don- 
oju  was  out  of  hearing  for  a  moment  I  could 
not  resist  a  shot  which  left  our  friend  guessing 
whether  or  not  I  had  told  you,  senor,  how  I 
came  by  my  wound." 

*'Ah,  yes,"  from  Benicia  in  a  hushed  voice. 
**I  knew  the  minute  I  returned  there  had  been 
something  between  you.  Urgo  was  like  a  cor- 
nered animal." 

''And  so  he  turned  on  you,"  Grant  could 
not  help  saying.  **If  only  I  could  have  guessed 
beforehand  his  attack — " 

Again  silence  fell.  Grant  was  alive  to  the 
play  of  unspoken  thought  between  father  and 
daughter;  these  two  alone  in  the  immensity  of 
the  desert  and  facing  unsupported  the  craft 
of  an  implacable  enemy.  He  sensed  the  battle 
.       [171] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

between  their  pride  and  their  desperate  need 
for  an  ally :  the  one  impulse  dictating  that  what 
was  the  secret  affair  of  the  House  of  0  'Dono ju 
must  remain  strictly  its  own  secret,  the  other 
moving  them  to  confide  in  him,  who  unwittingly 
had  been  drawn  into  the  struggle.  Gladly 
would  he  have  offered  himself  as  a  champion; 
but  he  must  await  their  initiative.  Suddenly 
Grant  recalled  what  Bim  had  told  him  of  Urgo's 
threat  at  the  meeting  with  Don  Padraic  on  the 
desert  road:  how  the  head  of  the  Casa  O'Don- 
oju  would  be  held  responsible  for  harbouring 
an  escaped  convict.  There  was  no  blinking  his 
duty  in  this  direction. 

^'My  friend  tells  me,  Don  Padraic,  that  Col- 
onel Urgo  threatens  your  arrest  as  well  as  my 
own ;  that  you  will  be  held  responsible  for  con- 
cealing a  fugitive  from  justice.  That  cannot 
be,  of  course.  To-morrow,  if  Quelele  can  take 
Bagley  and  myself  in  the  car — " 

**No!"  Benicia's  denial  came  peremptorily 
and  with  a  hint  of  passion  which  gave  Grant  a 
sting  of  surprise.  **No,  senor,  we  do  not  turn 
wounded  men  into  the  desert — ^particularly  a 
friend  who  has  served  us  as  you  have  done." 

Again  Grant  saw  in  the  firelit  pools  of  her 
eyes  just  an  instant's  revelation  of  depths  he 
yearned  to  plumb—the  aspect  of  a  beginning 
[172] 


EEVELATION 

love  hardly  knowing  itself  as  such.  He  scarcely 
heard  the  voice  of  Don  Padraic  seconding  his 
daughter's  protest. 

**The  hospitality  of  the  Casa  O'Donoju,'*  he 
was  saying,  **can  hardly  recognize  such  silly 
threats.  Colonel  Urgo's  hope  was  that  we 
would  send  you  back  over  the  Koad  of  the  Dead 
Men  to  Caborca  or  Magdalena  where,  naturally, 
you  would  be  made  a  prisoner.  Please  dismiss 
from  your  mind  any  idea  of  our  permitting  our- 
selves to  play  into  this  man's  hands." 

Bim  Bagley  ventured  to  break  his  silence: 
**  Grant  here  and  I  have  important  business  to- 
gether up  over  the  Line.  We  ought  to  be  mov- 
ing soon's  we  can."  The  white-haired  don 
turned  to  Bim  with  a  gracious  spreading  of  the 
hands. 

**When  Senor  Hickman  feels  able  to  make 
the  journey  Quelele  will  take  him  and  yourself, 
Senor  Bagley,  to  westward.  There  is  a  way 
through  El  Infiernillo  up  to  the  Arizona  town 
of  Cuprico.  By  so  going  you  will  avoid  any 
trap  Urgo  might  lay.  But  you  will  not  hurry 
Senor  Hickman's  going" — Don  Padraic  inter- 
jected reservation — ^*and  you,  Senor  Bagley, 
surely  can  remain  with  us  until  then." 

The  direct  Bagley,  finding  himself  thwarted 
by  the  don's  suavity,  sent  a  sheepish  grin 
.       [173] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT     • 

Grant's  way  in  token  of  his  defeat  and  main- 
tained silence.  Don  Padraic,  to  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject his  reticence  had  reluctantly  introduced, 
struck  a  gong  to  summon  a  servant.  Soon  a 
decanter  of  sherry  was  glowing  golden  in  the 
firelight  and  cigarettes  were  burning.  The 
master  of  the  Casa  O'Donoju  artfully  led  Bim 
into  talk  of  cattle,  always  currency  of  conver- 
sation in  the  Southwest.  Grant  drew  his  chair 
closer  to  Benicia's. 

**You  startled  me  with  that  *No'  of  yours  to 
my  proposal  to  leave  the  Garden  of  Solitude  at 
once, ' '  he  said  with  a  boldness  he  did  not  wholly 
feel.  **  Being  a  little  deaf,  I  am  not  sure  I 
heard  all  the  reasons  you  gave  why  I  should 
not  go." 

'^What  you  failed  to  hear  me  say  my  father 
supplied,''  the  girl  quickly  parried,  giving  him 
her  steady  gaze.  He  was  not  to  be  so  easily 
side-tracked.  What  had  begun  in  boldness 
swept  him  on  in  passionate  sincerity : 

**  There  are  many  excellent  reasons  why  I 
should  be  somewhere  else  than  here  this  time 
to-morrow  night;  but  there  is  one  very  com- 
pelling reason  why  I  welcome  every  added  hour 
here  in  the  Garden.  May  I  tell  you  that  rea- 
son?" 

**If  you  think  I  should  know."  The  words 
[174] 


EEVELATION 

came  simply.  He,  looking  down  into  the  hint 
of  features  the  firelight  grudgingly  gave  him, 
saw  there  the  frank  camaraderie  of  a  candid 
spirit:  the  soul  that  was  Benicia  O'Donoju,  un- 
sullied of  artifice  or  the  vain  trickeries  of  the 
woman  desired.  **If  you  think  I  should  know" 
— call  of  comrade  to  comrade.  The  desert  girl 
scorning  subtleties  and  inventions;  knowing 
what  her  words  would  prompt  yet  wishing  them 
to  be  said. 

**It  is  that  I  love  you,  Benicia,  and  that  I 
cannot  leave  you,  loving  you  so,  when  I  know 
you  are  in  danger."  Grant  gave  her  his  heart's 
pledge  in  simple  directness.  Though  the  girl 
was  not  unprepared  for  his  avowal,  the  call  in 
his  words,  elemental  as  the  sweep  of  precious 
rain  over  the  thirsting  desert,  set  quivering 
chords  of  her  being  never  before  stirred.  He 
saw  the  trembling  of  her  lips;  her  curving 
lashes  trembled  and  were  jewelled  with  little 
drops.  She  turned  her  gaze  into  the  fire  for  a 
long  minute.  Grant  heard  vaguely  the  voice  of 
Bim  Bagley  expounding  some  theme  of  cattle 
ticks.    His  heart  was  on  the  rack. 

**  Grant — good  friend — "     Her  voice  broke, 
then  valiantly  found  itself.    **You  heard  from 
Urgo  the  story  of  our  house — of  the  Bed  One 
and  his  crime  against  God — " 
[175] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

*'The  hound!"  he  muttered.  Benicia  groped 
on: 

^*My  father — ^no  one  ever  told  me  that  story 
because — because — "  Grant  saw  one  hand 
steal  up  to  touch  with  a  gesture  almost  abhor- 
rent the  low  wave  of  red  over  her  brow — *  *  I  bear 
the  sign,  you  see." 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  stay  her,  for  the 
dregs  of  suffering  were  working  a  slow  torture 
upon  her;  the  face  of  the  girl  he  loved  had  be- 
come like  some  sculptor's  study  of  the  spirit  of 
fatalism.    He  could  not  check  her. 

**My  father  when  he  returned  to-day  and  I 
told  him — my  father  said  the  story  was  true 
as  Urgo  told  it.  Once  in  every  second  genera- 
tion— this  sign  of  El  Rojo,  murderer  and  viola- 
tor of  the  sanctuary — " 

**But,  Benicia,  surely  you  don't  believe  this 
fairy  story ! ' '  Grant  packed  into  his  low  words 
all  the  willing  of  a  spirit  fighting  for  precious 
possession.  He  felt  that  every  word  the  girl 
spoke  was  pushing  her  farther  from  him. 

**Ah,  Grant,  we  desert  people  believe  easily 
because  the  truth  is  not  hidden.  It  is  true ;  my 
good  grey  father  knew  that  I  knew  it  to  be  true 
and  did  not  seek  to  deceive  me  when  I  asked 
him.  The  O'Donoju  with  this" — again  the 
shrinking  touch  of  fingers  to  the  dull-burning 
[176] 


REVELATION 

stripe  on  her  forehead — **  cannot  give  love,  for 
with  love  goes  unhappiness — and  death." 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  rose  and  hurried  into 
the  shadows  beyond  the  range  of  firelight. 
Grant  heard  a  door  latch  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  click  to. 


£177] 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHAT   HAPPENED   IN    THE   NIGHT 

SOMEWHEEE  in  the  darkness  of  the  an- 
cient house  a  deep-toned  bell  tolled  the  hour 
of  two.  The  sound  came  to  Grant,  broad  awake 
in  his  room,  as  if  from  a  great  distance — tocsin 
strokes  against  the  bowl  of  the  desert  sky. 
Four  times  in  his  sleepless  vigil  he  had  heard 
that  bell  measuring  night  watches,  and  each 
successive  hour  struck  seemed  the  period  to  a 
century. 

He  had  gone  to  bed  with  a  heavy  ache  follow- 
ing his  words  with  Benicia  and  her  abrapt  ter- 
mination of  his  pleading.  On  his  first  review 
of  the  girl's  abnegation  of  the  love  she  could 
not  conceal  the  whole  thing  had  seemed  fantas- 
tic, almost  childish  in  its  essence  of  witch-bane 
and  belief  in  blighting  curse.  How  could  this 
virile  creature  of  a  fine  and  cultured  mind  con- 
ceive herself  the  heritor  of  a  weight  of  guilt 
carried  down  from  some  ancestor  in  the  dim 
past?  There  was  the  superstition  of  the  evil 
eye  among  ignorant  peasants  of  the  Latin  coun- 
tries, to  be  sure;  but  for  a  girl  of  Benicia 's  in- 
[178] 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  THE  NIGHT 

telligence  to  be  enslaved  by  such  mumbo-jumbo 
as  Urgo  bad  voiced — ridiculous ! 

Such  was  Grant's  first  review.  Weighed 
from  every  angle  and  conceding  tbe  girl  he 
loved  every  mitigation  of  jangled  nerves,  never- 
theless the  man  of  the  cities  could  find  naught 
but  lamentable  folly  in  it  all.  The  first  strik- 
ing of  the  distant  bell  found  him  rebellious. 

From  where  he  lay  he  could  look  through  a 
grated  window  up  to  the  heavens :  a  square  of 
dappled  infinity.  Insensibly  his  eyes  began 
singling  out  the  stars,  measuring  the  gulf  be- 
tween this  and  that  steady-burning  point  of 
light.  Somewhere  outside  a  desert  owl  timed 
the  pulse  of  the  night  with  an  insistent  call, 
unvarying,  unwearying.  The  man  on  the  bed 
found  himself  tallying  the  blood  beats  to  his 
brain  by  this  ghostly  metronome.  Beat — beat! 
— ^passing  seconds  of  mortality  for  the  man 
Grant  Hickman.  Beat — beat! — How  puny  a 
thing,  how  inconsequential  the  life  of  a  man 
when  calipered  by  the  time  measure  of  those 
burning  suns  up  yonder! 

He  rallied  himself,  for  such  drifting  into  the 
subjective  was  a  new  and  puzzling  experience 
for  a  practical  man.  But  minute  by  minute  the 
spirit  of  the  desert,  which  is  the  spirit  of  chaos 
become  ponderable,  stole  over  him,  chaining  his 
[179] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

imagination  to  things  felt  but  not  seen  of  men. 
A  cliill  of  the  untoward  and  the  unreal  swept 
over  him.  He  seemed  to  be  braced  nervously 
for  some  blow  out  of  the  void.  His  imagination 
played  with  a  dim  figure,  the  shape  of  El  Rojo 
of  the  red  hair  riding — riding  through  the  dark 
on  his  eternal  mission  of  damnation. 

The  clock  struck  three  and  at  the  instant  of 
the  third  stroke  a  shadow  like  a  bat's  wing  flit- 
ted across  the  bars  of  the  window  through 
which  the  eyes  of  the  wakeful  man  had  been 
roaming.  A  sharp  tinkle  of  steel  on  stone  split 
the  silence  of  the  chamber.  Grant  was  gal- 
vanized into  a  leap  from  the  bed.  He  stood 
shaking.  Silence.  Silence  absolute  as  the 
grave  after  that  single  sharp  ring  of  steel  on 
stone. 

He  looked  up  at  the  window  where  the  flitting 
passage  of  the  bat's  wing  had  showed.  Just 
the  clear-burning  stars  there.  The  dim  recesses 
of  the  room  revealed  no  bulk  of  an  intruder. 
Was  this  but  the  trick  of  overwrought  nerves? 

Grant  fumbled  for  his  matches  and  brought 
a  light  to  the  candle  wick.  By  the  waxing  yel- 
low glow  he  peered  round  the  chamber.  A 
flicker  of  white  reflection  caught  his  eye  and 
he  almost  leaped  to  a  spot  on  the  floor  directly 
beneath  the  window. 

[180] 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  THE  NIGHT 

A  dagger  lay  there.  It  was  that  curiously 
wrought  affair  of  dulled  silver  haft  and  double- 
edged  blade  which  he  had  noted  before  as  part- 
of  the  rosette  of  ancient  knives  and  short 
swords  clamped  against  the  high  wainscoting 
above  the  window  for  a  wall  decoration — the 
weapons  Don  Padraic  had  pointed  to  with  the 
pride  of  a  collector  that  first  day  the  wounded 
guest  was  brought  in  from  the  desert. 

But  how  could  this  dagger  have  slipped  from 
its  sheath  with  no  hand  to  disturb  it!  Grant 
stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

He  had  the  haft  in  his  grip  for  a  quarter- 
second,  then  dropped  the  thing  and  leaped  back 
as  if  from  an  asp.  Something  gummed  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  Something  showed  dull 
black  against  the  dim  flicker  of  the  blade.  With 
a  gasp  he  knelt  and  brought  the  candle  closer. 

Blood  there  on  the  blade!  Blood  on  his 
hand ! 

He  stood  frozen  while  the  pumping  of  his 
heart  volleyed  thunder  against  his  ear  drums. 
Murder  cried  aloud  from  that  stained  thing  of 
silver  and  steel  on  the  floor.  Somewhere  in  this 
rambling  old  pile — somewhere  in  the  silence  a 
swift  stroke  that  had  snuffed  out  a  life,  and  then 
the  murderer,  fleeing,  had  flung  this  weapon 
through  the  window.  He  had  flung  it  almost 
[181] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

at  the  feet  of  the  only  one  in  the  whole  house 
who  was  not  sleeping. 

Alarm!  He  must  give  the  alarm  while  yet 
the  murderer  was  near  the  scene !  Spur  to  ac- 
tion followed  swiftly  upon  Grant's  momentary 
numbness.  He  threw  a  dressing  robe  over  him 
and  ran  through  the  door  of  his  chamber  giving 
onto  the  arcade  about  the  patio.  Just  over  the 
low  balustrade  lay  the  little  jungle  of  flowering 
things,  and  on  the  opposite  side,  he  remembered, 
hung  the  great  Javanese  gong  Benicia  used  to 
summon  the  servants  to  the  patio.  Grant 
leaped  the  low  balustrade  and  stumbled  crash- 
ing through  the  geraniums  and  giant  fuchsias 
toward  the  dim  moon  of  metal  he  saw  in  the 
shadows  of  an  arch. 

He  came  to  the  gong,  groped  for  the  padded 
mace  hanging  over  it.  The  patio  roared  with 
its  released  thunders. 

Muffled  shouts.  Banging  of  doors.  Lights. 
A  white  figure  came  blundering  through  the  ar- 
cade; it  was  Bim  Bagley. 

**Some  one's  been  murdered!"  Grant  greeted 
him.    * '  A  dagger — ^through  my  window  I ' ' 

Came  others — servants  with  blankets  clutched 

around  them.    Bim  directed  them  to  run  to  the 

great  door  in  the  outer  wall  and  catch  any 

skulker  they  might  find  in  the  gardens  beyond 

[182] 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  THE  NIGHT 

the  house.  Only  dimly  aware  himself  o^  some- 
thing untoward,  the  big  man  could  give  no  more 
specific  directions. 

Then  Benicia,  bare-footed,  her  hair  fallen 
down  over  a  blue  robe  she  drew  together  across 
her  breast.    Grant  started  towards  her. 

*' Where  is  father?"  she  cried  in  a  woman's 
divination,  and  Grant  noted  Don  Padraic's  ab- 
sence. He  saw  the  girl  make  a  quick  step  for 
a  closed  door  behind  her.  Unreasoned  instinct 
prompted  him  to  put  himself  before  the  door, 
denying  her. 

**No;  let  me,''  he  commanded.  She  made  a 
swaying  step  towards  Grant  but  was  met  by 
the  door  swiftly  closing  in  her  face.  Inside  the 
chamber,  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and 
struck  a  match  to  grope  for  a  candle  wick. 

In  the  pallid  flicker  he  saw  the  figure  of  Don 
Padraic  on  his  high  bed.  A  dagger  wound  was 
in  his  breast. 

And  the  girl  outside  the  locked  door  stood 
very  still.  Her  eyes,  wide  with  horror,  were 
fixed  upon  the  spot  where  she  had  seen  Grant 
put  his  hand  in  pushing  open  the  door. 

Three  small  smears  of  blood  there. 


[183] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ACCUSATION 

GRANT  was  stunned.  The  vision  of  tlie  fig- 
ure  with  the  fine  patrician  face  there  on 
the  bed — in  the  breast  the  savage  mark  of  vio- 
lence— seemed  but  a  part  with  the  disordered 
fancies  of  recent  hours.  Beating  of  Benicia's 
hands  on  the  locked  door  and  the  faint  sound 
of  her  calls  aroused  him.  He  stepped  to  the 
bedside  and  felt  for  a  pulse,  listened  for  a 
breath.    There  was  none. 

Murder  had  been  done  swiftly  and  surely — 
and  done  with  the  ancient  dagger  from  the 
weapon  cluster  on  the  wall  of  his  own  room.  In 
the  stunning  discovery  he  had  just  made  Grant 
did  not  find  any  grim  correlation  between  these 
two  circumstances.  He  pulled  up  a  coverlet  to 
conceal  ugly  stains,  then  stepped  to  the  door 
and  unlocked  it. 

Benicia  was  waiting  there.  The  eyes  meeting 
his  were  blazing  horror.  Almost  Grant  read  in 
them  unthinkable  accusation.  He  put  out  his 
hands  to  support  her,  for  she  was  swaying  in 
her  effort  over  the  doorstep. 
[184] 


ACCUSATION 

**No — no!*'  Benicia  shuddered  and  drew 
away  from  him  as  though  he  were  a  man 
unclean.  Mystified,  Grant  stepped  aside  to 
let  her  pass.  He  saw  her  run  to  the  side  of  the 
high  bed  and  kneel  there.  Her  hands  went  out 
blindly  to  grope  for  the  still  features  on  the 
pillow.  They  played  uncertainly  over  them, 
then  rested  on  the  heavy  mane  of  hair.  Her 
fingers  repeated  little  smoothing  gestures.  A 
breathless  faltering  of  love  phrases  in  the  Span- 
ish came  from  her  lips.  Grant,  seeing  that  the 
girl  retained  mastery  over  herself,  tiptoed  from 
the  chamber;  it  was  not  meet  that  he  should 
be  witness  to  a  souPs  acceptance  of  the  bitter 
fact  of  death. 

He  blundered  into  Bim  coming  back  to  the 
patio  from  his  excursion  at  the  head  of  servants 
beyond  the  great  front  door  and  told  him  what 
had  happened ;  of  the  dagger  dropped  through 
the  window  and  the  murder.  The  big  Arizonan 
reared  back  as  if  roweled. 

**My  God,  man,  that  leaves  the  girl  alone 
here  in  this  jumping-off  place! — ^With  that 
snake  Urgo  in  the  offing.  Boy,  it's  up  to  us  to 
help  her  out!" 

Grant  gripped  his  paPs  hand  with  a  low,  "I 
knew  I  could  count  on  you,  old  scout." 

The  dry  patter  of  sandals  came  down  the  ar- 
[185] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

cade  from  a  knot  of  lights  where  some  of  the 
servants  had  gathered  in  indecision  waiting  to 
be  given  orders.  Grant  recognized  'Cepcion  in 
the  mountainous  figure  approaching  and  was  re- 
called to  the  necessities  of  the  moment. 

^*Tell  her,  Bim,  what  has  happened  and  send 
her  to  her  mistress.  Then  we  must  get  out  men 
to  circle  the  Garden  and  prevent  any  person's 
getting  away.'' 

Bagley  strode  to  meet  the  major  domo  and 
rattled  swift  Spanish  at  her.  The  waddling  In- 
dian woman  quivered  and  lifted  her  fat  arms 
above  her  head.  A  dreadful  wavering  cry 
came  from  her  lips.  Instantly  the  cry  was 
taken  up  by  the  servants  at  the  far  end  of  the 
patio — a  bone-chilling,  animal  noise  which 
climbed  slowly  to  the  highest  register  and  ended 
in  a  yelp.  At  the  sound  Grant's  blood  went 
cold.  This  Indian  death  howl  was  the  cry  of 
the  desert  kind,  calling  the  despair  of  creatures 
chained  to  a  land  of  drought  and  ever-present 
death. 

To  escape  it  he  went  with  Bim  out  of  the 
great  door  to  the  unwalled  spaces  where  the 
avenue  of  palms  stood  sentinels  against  the 
night.  Beyond  the  bridge  over  the  oasis  stream 
lay  the  clutter  of  huts  that  was  the  Papago  vil- 
lage, a  fief  under  the  overlordship  of  the  manor 
[186] 


ACCUSATION 

house.  Not  a  light  showed  among  the  thirty 
or  forty  beehive  shapes  when  the  two  men 
started  to  walk  mider  the  palms ;  but  suddenly 
a  cry  arose  from  the  midst  of  the  village  an- 
swering that  coming  down  the  night  wind  from 
the  mourners  in  the  great  house.  Eumour  of 
death  had  outstripped  the  two  who  walked. 

The  single  cry  from  the  village  instantly 
grew  in  volume.  Treble  voices  of  squaws  lifted 
the  abomination  of  noise  to  the  saw  edge  of  a 
screech;  men's  harsher  notes  rumbled  and 
boomed  intolerably.  All  the  night  was  made 
bedlam. 

Lights  were  winking  through  the  chinks  of 
the  jacals  when  Grant  and  Bim  came  to  the 
outskirts  of  the  village.  There  was  confusion 
of  forms  skittering  about  from  hut  to  hut.  Bim 
seized  upon  one  man  and  demanded  to  know  the 
whereabouts  of  Quelele,  head  man  of  the  vil- 
lage. The  big  Indian  soon  stood  before  them 
with  a  gesture  of  hand  to  breast  indicating  they 
were  to  command  him. 

** Somebody  has  killed  your  master,"  Bim 
"told  him.  ''Get  out  men  on  horses  to  circle  the 
Garden  and  go  out  along  the  road  both  ways. 
'Cover  every  foot  and  bring  in  anybody  you 
may  find." 

Quelele  sped  with  hoarse  shouts  down  the 
.         [187] 


DUST  OF  THE  BESEET 

village's  single  street;  a  dozen  men  joined  him 
in  a  race  for  the  corrals. 

** There's  no  way  for  the  murderer  to  get 
out  and  live  except  along  the  road,"  was  Bim's 
comment  as  they  turned  to  retrace  their  steps 
to  the  house.  **If  he  took  to  the  mountains 
even  with  a  horse  he  couldn't  last  a  day;  they're 
straight  up  and  down." 

They  had  not  gone  fifty  yards  from  the  Pa- 
pago  village  when  a  new  sound  punctuated  the 
death  cry,  now  settled  to  a  monotonous  chant 
promising  hours'  duration.  It  was  the  hum- 
bum-hum  of  the  water-drum — gigantic  gourds 
floated,  cut  side  down,  in  a  tub  of  water  and 
drubbed  with  sticks.  That  noise  was  accom- 
panied by  the  locust-like  slither  and  rattle  of 
the  rasping  sticks,  another  primitive  tempo- 
setting  instrument  of  the  Southwestern  natives. 

The  death  howl  began  to  catch  its  measure  by 
the  boom  and  screak  of  these  two  instruments. 
A  noise  to  beat  against  the  inside  of  men's 
skulls  and  set  the  bone  of  them  in  rhythm. 
Savage  as  the  peaks  of  Altar,  unremitting  as 
the  drive  of  wind-blown  sand  against  granite. 

Bum-chut'Chut-chut!    Sob  of  a  land  in  chains. 

^'Oh,  tell  them  to  cut  it!"  Grant's  frayed 
nerves  cried  out  protest.  The  other  merely 
[188] 


ACCUSATION 

gave  a  wave  of  his  liaiid  comprehending  resig- 
nation. 

**  Might  as  well  tell  the  wind  to  stop.  This '11 
keep  up  for  three  days — this  ding-dong  busi- 
ness.   It's  custom,  old  son." 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  house  of  death 
again  Grant  caught  his  mind  harking  back  to 
that  moment  when  he  had  come  from  Don  Pad- 
raic's  chamber  to  confront  the  girl's  wild  eyes 
— eyes  with  almost  the  unthinkable  look  of  ac- 
cusation in  them.  That  aspect  of  her  eyes 
dumbfounded  him,  left  him  groping  for  an  ex- 
planation. 

Once  at  the  house.  Grant  took  his  friend  to 
his  chamber  and  showed  him  the  knife  where 
it  lay  on  the  floor  as  he  had  dropped  it.  The 
big  Arizonan  stooped  over  with  the  candle  near 
the  grisly  thing — his  hawk's  nose  and  salient 
cheekbones  were  outlined  against  the  candle 
flame  like  the  raised  head  of  some  emperor  on 
a  Koman  coin — and  very  gingerly  he  turned  the 
"dagger  over. 

^* Finger  prints  here  on  the  haft,"  he 
grunted. 

**Yes,  mine,"  Grant  put  in.  **I  picked  it  up 
at  first  without  knowing — ^without  reckoning 
there  might  be — "  He  broke  off  to  pour  water 
[189] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

into  the  quaint  old  willow-ware  bowl  which 
stood  with  its  ewer  on  a  stand  in  a  corner,  then 
he  scrubbed  his  hands  vigorously.  A  great 
relief  came  to  him  with  this  act  of  purifica- 
tion. 

*^  Yours  —  yes,  and  probably  somebody 
else's,"  Bim  was  mumbling  his  thoughts  aloud. 
He  stood  erect  once  more  and  measured  the 
height  of  the  barred  window  over  the  lintel  of 
which  was  fixed  the  rosette  of  arms.  **Hum.  I 
simply  don't  figger  why  the  man  who  wanted 
to  kill  the  old  don  came  to  the  outside  of  this 
room,  clum  up  the  wall  an'  reached  in  through 
those  bars  there  to  take  one  of  these  old  knives. 
Can't  see  why  all  that  fuss — more  particular, 
why  he  snuck  back  here  an'  tossed  the  knife 
through  the  bars  after  his  bloody  work." 

**  Perhaps  he  wanted  it  to  appear  I  am  the 
murderer,"  Grant  hazarded  doubtfully. 

**You!"  Bim  looked  up  with  a  wry  smile. 
**Why  should  you  want  to  kill  off  that  fine  old 
man? — What  motive?" 

**What  motive  for  anybody  here  in  the  house 
or  in  the  Papago  village  outside  for  that  mat- 
ter?" Grant  voiced  his  perplexity.  *^Don  Pa- 
draic  was  the  padrone  of  every  Indian  from  the 
Gulf  to  Arizora.  From  what  his  daughter  tells 
me  there's  not  a  Papago  on  the  place  here  who 
[190] 


ACCUSATION 

wouldn't  gladly  have  died  in  his  place.    The 
whole  thing's  too  deep  for  me." 

They  left  the  dim  chamber  with  its  relic  of 
violence  still  lying  on  the  floor  and  walked  out 
into  the  perfumed  patio.  It  was  the  hour  when 
first  heralds  of  dawn  were  coursing  across  the 
sky.  Grant  looked  up  to  the  dimming  stars  and 
read  there  the  same  message  that  had  come  to 
him  the  hours  before  swift  stroke  of  tragedy: 
the  fragility  of  that  spider  web  man  spins  into 
the  gulf  of  infinite  time.  And  the  oneness  of 
this  unlimned  stretch  of  vacancy  called  the 
Desert  of  Altar  with  that  ethereal  desert  of 
stars.  How  infinitesimal  in  the  face  of  either 
the  soul  of  man,  its  hopes ! 

A  great  sense  of  impotence  weighed  down  on 
Grant.  His  thoughts  dwelt  with  the  girl  he 
loved,  sore  stricken  by  this  cowardly  blow  in  the 
dark,  bereft  of  one  who  had  been  soul  of  her 
soul.  Now,  the  last  of  her  name,  alone  in  this 
bleak  wilderness  with  none  to  fend  for  her 
against  the  wiles  of  Urgo  except  the  child-like 
Indians:  what  a  situation  for  Benicia  to  face! 
The  man  yearned  to  go  to  where  she  knelt  alone 
with  her  dead,  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  give 
her  pledge  of  his  love  and  protection.  Yet 
that  was  not  meet.  The  gulf  of  Benicia 's  grief 
denied  him. 

[191] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Bim  brought  Grant  out  of  Ms  reverie  with, 
**It's  my  hunch  we  won't  have  to  look  far  to 
find  the  man  behind  this  bad  business." 

*^You  mean— r' 

*'That  same — Hamilcar  Urgo,''  was  Bim's 
positive  assertion.    Grant  objected: 

*  *  But  you  passed  him  well  on  the  way  to  Mag- 
dalena  this  afternoon.  It's  not  likely  he'd  risk 
coming  back  in  his  car  to  attempt  porch-climb- 
ing and  murder.    That's  not  in  his  line." 

**Sure  not!  But  one  of  these  Indians  around 
here  who  knows  the  lay  of  the  house — somebody 
who  savvyed,  for  instance,  about  those  old 
knives  on  your  wall — a  hundred  silver  pesos 
from  Urgo's  pocket — " 

Grant's  mind  was  in  no  state  to  analyze  sub- 
tleties of  villainy.  *^I  can't  see  what  Urgo 
could  possibly  gain  by  killing  Don  Padraic  un- 
less there's  a  great  deal  behind  his  relations 
with  Benicia's  father  you  and  I  don't  know." 

The  fat  shape  of  'Cepcion  waddled  down  the 
nearby  arcade  in  the  direction  of  the  room 
wherein  Benicia  had  locked  herself.  Bim's 
eyes  idly  followed  her  as  he  pressed  his  argu- 
ment: 

*^  Maybe  so — maybe  not.  But  figger  the  thing 
thisaway:  Urgo's  dead  set  on  marryin'  this 
high-spirited  senorita — if  you'U  excuse  me 
[192] 


ACCUSATION 

troinp':ii'  on  a  tender  subject,  old  boss — an'  he 
reckons  they's  two  folks  who  don't  encourage 
those  ideas  to  the  limit — her  father  and  your- 
self. Yourself  he  tries  to  get  on  suspicion  and 
because  you  riled  him  on  the  train  like  you  say. 
Now  he  does  for  the  father  an'  counts  he  has 
the  girl  for  the  taking,  she  having  no  kith  or 
kin  to  come  up  in  support,  as  you  might  say." 

The  dawn  reddened  and  still  the  two  men  in 
the  patio  fruitlessly  pursued  speculation.  A 
sudden  step  crunched  the  gravel  behind  them. 
Both  leaped  at  the  sound,  so  taut  were  their 
nerves.  They  turned  to  see  Benicia  standing 
in  the  half  light  with  the  misty  banks  of  gera- 
niums for  a  background.  With  her  were  the 
giant  Papago  Quelele  and  two  other  Indians. 
They  carried  loops  of  hair  ropes. 

**Senor  Hickman" — the  girl's  voice  was 
deadly  cold — *^Senor  Hickman,  my  servant 
'Cepcion  has  just  brought  to  me  the  dagger  she 
found  in  your  room.  The  dagger  is  stained 
with  my  father's  blood,  senor.  There  are  prints 
of  fingers  on  the  haft  of  that  dagger,  Senor 
Hickman." 

Grant  caught  the  poisonous  edge  of  hatred 
in  the  voice,  read  the  bitter  accusation  in  her 
eyes.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  Be- 
nicia checked  him. 

[193] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

**I  saw  you  leave  those  prints  of  my  father's 
blood  on  the  door  of  his  chamber,  seiior.  Be- 
fore my  very  eyes,  senor!  Just  now  when 
'Cepcion  brings  me  the  dagger  she  finds  in 
your  room  I  compare  the  print  of  fingers  on 
its  haft  with  the  print  on  the  door.  They  are 
the  same.  What  have  you  to  say,  Senor  Hick- 
man?" 

**Say!"  Bim  Bagley's  voice  snapped  like  a 
whip  lash.  **Are  you  accusing  Grant  Hickman 
here  of  murder  f  Benicia  never  even  cast  a 
glance  at  him.    She  repeated: 

**What  have  you  to  say  to  this,  Senor  Hick- 
man T'  Grant  answered  levelly,  *^  Enough  al- 
ready has  been  said,  Senorita  0  'Donoju. ' '  Be- 
nicia signalled  to  Quelele  and  he  advanced  with 
the  ropes. 


[194] 


CHAPTER  XVn 

THE  ORDEAL 

WITH  the  lithe  spring  of  a  cat  Bim  put  him- 
self between  Grant  and  the  advancing  In- 
dian. His  face  had  gone  dead  white  and  his 
eyes  were  coals  blown  upon  by  the  wind  of 
anger. 

**None  of  that!  Get  back  there — ^you!'* 
Bim's  voice  was  scarcely  audible  but  his  pose 
of  furious  battling  on  the  hair-trigger  of 
release  was  sufficiently  vocal  to  awe  the  Pap  ago 
giant  into  a  backward  stumble.  Then  to 
Benicia : 

** Young  woman,  you're  making  the  mistake 
of  your  life.  I'm  a 'mighty  sorry  for  you,  an' 
you  are  going  to  be  right  regretful  yourself 
when  you  have  time  to  think."  Grant  made  a 
step  forward  to  lay  a  checking  hand  on  his 
friend's  arm.  He  would  have  spoken  but  the 
girl  interrupted. 

**My  father's  blood  on  this  man's  hands! — 
the  dagger  from  the  wall  of  his  chamber — " 
Of  a  sudden  the  last  shred  of  restraint  she 
[195] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

had  battled  to  impose  upon  herself  gave  way 
and  a  flood  came  under  propulsion  of  hysteria. 
Out  fluttered  her  hands  to  point  the  object  of 
her  execration. 

''You — I  do  not  know  you!  Just  a  chance 
meeting  between  us  and  we  part.  Then  fate 
brings  you  to  this  house  wounded — snatched 
from  death.  An  escaped  convict  from  a  chain 
gang — you  yourself  admitted  as  much  just  last 
night.  With  good  reason  my  cousin,  Colonel 
Urgo,  must  have  caused  your  arrest.  Why 
should  I  not  believe  you  capable  of  killing  my 
father?  Why  not  when  the  signs  of  his  very 
blood  cry  out  against  you!" 

^^Senorita  O'Donoju — "  Grant's  effort  to 
check  her  was  fruitless,  for  she  had  whirled 
upon  Bagley:  ''And  you!  Unknown  to  my 
father — unknown  to  me.  He  brought  you  here 
on  your  own  representation.  You  said  you 
were  hunting  for  your  friend  to  whom  we  had 
offered  our  hospitality.  Can  you  deny  that 
both  of  you  discovered  opportunity  here  to 
kill — and  then  to  rob?" 

The  storm  that  had  swept  the  girl  through 
this  welter  of  imaginings,  illogical,  frenetic, 
took  heavy  toll  of  her  physical  reserves.  Now 
she  stood  trembling,  white-faced  in  the  spread- 
ing dawn,  pitiful.  Her  small  hands  were 
[196] 


THE  ORDEAL 

clenched  into  fists  across  her  breast.  Flutter- 
ings  of  uncontrolled  nerves  made  the  flesh  of 
her  temples  pulsate.  Grant,  for  all  the  crush- 
ing horror  of  these  moments,  felt  pity  pushing 
through  the  numbness  Benicia's  accusation  had 
wrought.  Never  had  he  seen  a  woman  so  tor- 
tured by  the  devils  of  hysteria;  he  was  ap- 
palled.   He  spoke  to  her  gently : 

**If  you  will  permit  me  to  go  to  my  room 
while  you  make  further  investigations  I  will 
answer  any  questions  they  may  suggest.  It 
must  be  plain  to  you,  Senorita  O'Donoju,  that 
I  cannot  escape  from  this  place." 

The  girl  gave  him  a  dazed  look  as  if  she 
hardly  comprehended  what  he  said,  then  she 
slowly  nodded  and,  beckoning  the  Indians  to 
follow,  she  turned  and  disappeared  beyond  the 
patio's  green.  Bim  threw  an  arm  over  his  pal's 
shoulder  and  accompanied  him  to  his  room.  At 
the  door  he  whirled  Grant  about  with  a  strong 
grip  of  both  his  hands  and  gave  him  a  grin  more 
eloquent  than  any  sermon  on  fortitude. 

**When  the  she-ones  get  to  stampedin',  old 
pal,  they  sure  have  us  helpless  men  winging. 
Now  go  in  there  and  get  a  sleep  while  I  take  a 
look  round  below  your  window  and  elsewheres." 

Bim's  easy  injunction  to  sleep  was  not  so 
easily  followed  by  the  man  who  was  a  self- 
[197] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

appointed  prisoner.  On  his  bed  Grant  tossed  in 
a  fever  of  mingled  blind  speculation  and  out- 
raged pride.  Strive  though  he  might  to  palliate 
Benicia's  charge  against  him  on  the  score  of 
the  girPs  complete  prostration  through  the 
night's  tragedy,  the  quick  and  fiery  blood  in  her 
that  was  inheritance  from  Spanish  forebears, 
yet  always  he  came  against  the  same  ugly  fact : 
one  whom  he  loved  with  all  the  passion  in  him 
and  whose  return  of  love  he  had  dared  hope  to 
win  had  accused  him  of  murder  out  of  hand. 

Yet  how  could  he  prove  his  innocence?  Of  a 
sudden  that  thought  plumped  down  on  him  with 
the  burst  of  a  high  explosive  shell. 

Benicia's  accusation  had  appeared  mon- 
strous, yes.  But,  look  upon  the  facts  through 
her  eyes — so  a  curiously  impersonal  phase  of 
mind  prompted;  what  were  those  facts  as  they 
appeared  to  the  girl?  A  man  who  was  first 
a  chance  acquaintance  in  a  train  and  then,  by 
a  trick  of  fate,  a  guest  in  the  house,  rouses  the 
household  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  by 
sounding  an  alarm  in  the  patio.  He  calls 
** Murder!"  though  he  does  not  say  who  has 
been  murdered,  he  has  not  apparently  discov- 
ered the  body  of  Don  Padraic  in  his  chamber. 

This  man — this  waif  brought  in  from  the  des- 
ert— ^prevents  the  daughter's  going  in  to  the 
[198] 


THE  ORDEAL 

room  of  death  until  first  he  has  entered  that 
room  and  locked  the  door  behind  him.  He 
leaves  the  marks  of  his  fingers  in  blood  upon 
the  outside  of  that  door.  Then  he  and  his 
friend — *^call  him  confederate"  was  Grant's 
cynical  amendment — organize  a  hue  and  cry- 
outside  of  the  house.  While  this  is  in  progress 
a  servant  finds  in  the  guest's  room  a  dagger; 
instead  of  being  in  its  usual  place  amid  the 
rack  of  weapons  on  the  wall  this  dagger  lies 
on  the  floor  as  if  hastily  thrown  there  by  one 
who  had  no  proper  time  for  its  concealment. 
The  dagger  is  blood  stained  and  on  its  haft 
are  the  same  finger  prints  as  those  on  the  door 
of  the  dead  don's  chamber. 

There  was  the  record.    How  refute  it! 

Say  that  while  lying  awake  he  saw  a  hand 
appear  at  the  bars  of  his  window  and  heard 
the  tinkle  of  a  knife  dropped  within?  Why,  if 
he  was  so  vigilant  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, had  he  not  seen  that  hand  of  a  murderer 
steal  in  to  abstract  the  weapon  before  the  deed! 
And  whose  hand  was  itf  Did  not  the  burden 
of  proof  that  it  was  not  his  own  which  took 
the  dagger  from  the  wall  rest  solely  upon  Grant 
Hickman? 

Another's  finger  prints  on  that  bloodied  haft 
besides  his  own?  Perhaps.  But  it  needed  the 
[199] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

instruments  of  precision  of  a  detective  central 
office  to  juggle  with  such  minutiae  as  the  whorls 
and  spirals  in  a  finger  print,  and  they  most  cer- 
tainly were  lacking  at  the  Casa  O^Donoju. 
Graver  difficulty  still,  there  were  a  hundred  and 
more  Indians  in  the  oasis ;  how  gather  them  all 
together  and  take  the  prints  of  their  fingers? 

The  more  his  mind  roved  amid  hypotheses 
the  closer  about  him  seemed  drawn  the  meshes 
of  circumstance.  As  the  sun  of  a  new  day 
painted  a  glory  beyond  the  bars  of  his  window 
Grant  Hickman  felt  himself  as  helpless  as  that 
Tomlinson  of  the  Kipling  story  who  plunged 
headlong  through  the  space  between  all  the 
suns  of  infinity. 

He  must  have  slipped  into  the  sleep  of  ex- 
haustion, for  it  was  near  noon  when  a  knock  on 
his  door  roused  him.  At  his  bidding  'Cepcion 
opened  to  illustrate  a  command  in  Spanish 
with  a  backward  jerk  of  her  head.  Grant  arose 
and  followed  her  through  a  corridor  to  the  pa- 
tio. Benicia  was  standing  there  in  an  attitude 
of  awaiting  him,  a  little  beyond  her  was  Bim, 
his  face  wreathed  with  a  heartening  smile. 

The  girl  received  him  with  bleak  eyes.    **You 

will  please  follow  me,  senor, ' '  was  all  she  said. 

Then  she  led  the  way,  the  two  men  a  step  behind 

her,  out  of  the  still  house  and  down  the  avenue 

[200] 


THE  ORDEAL 

of  palms  towards  tlie  Papago  village.  From 
time  to  time  a  turn  in  the  path  gave  Grant  a 
glimpse  of  Benicia's  face.  It  was  a  changed 
woman  he  saw. 

Gone  was  the  vital  spirit  of  joy  of  living 
which  always  gave  the  girl  her  character  of 
Eurydice  in  khaki;  gone,  too,  that  softness  of 
grain  bom  of  happiness  undisturbed,  of  life 
amid  the  elemental  things  of  nature.  This 
Benicia  was  a  cold  fury  moving  to  judgment. 
The  call  of  her  Spanish  blood  from  centuries 
past — call  for  vengeance  and  blood-sacrifice — 
had  possessed  her.  It  was  as  if  some  mocking 
cartoonist  had  run  a  brush  over  the  features 
of  Innocence  in  portraiture,  giving  an  upward 
twist  of  cruelty  to  lips,  the  glint  of  blood  lust 
in  eyes. 

They  came  to  the  Indian  village,  all  hushed 
in  anticipation  of  some  prodigy.  Only  the 
frog-croaking  of  the  water  drums  and  the  dry 
clicking  of  the  rasping  sticks  betokened  a  con- 
tinuance of  the  mourning  ritual.  All  the  re- 
tainers of  the  Casa  O'Donoju,  farmers,  cattle 
handlers,  house  servants,  men,  squaws  and 
half -naked  children,  were  assembled  in  the 
rudely-defined  street  that  led  between  rows  of 
reed  and  mud-capped  huts.  Two  only  were 
seated  apart:  the  man  who  hobbled  the  drum- 
[201] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

ming  sticks  over  the  turtle-back  halves  of  the 
gourds  and  an  ancient  who  manipulated  the 
rasping  sticks.  On  every  bronze-black  face 
showed  the  strain  of  awaiting  an  untoward 
event. 

When  Benicia  appeared  some  elderly  squaws 
started  afresh  the  lugubrious  death  howl,  but  a 
gesture  from  the  girl  silenced  them.  She  beck- 
oned Quelele  to  her  and  spoke  some  rapid  words 
in  the  Papago  tongue.  He  in  turn  passed  the 
orders  to  two  men,  who  ran  into  one  of  the 
nearby  huts  to  reappear  staggering  under  the 
weight  of  a  great  metal  kettle,  such  as  might 
be  used  for  soap  boiling,  carried  between  them. 
Quelele  laid  two  heavy  flat  stones  in  the  middle 
of  the  street ;  the  kettle  carriers  deposited  their 
burden,  rim  down  on  the  rocks.  A  space  of 
two  inches  or  more  showed  between  the  kettle 
rim  and  the  hard  adobe. 

Still  the  hollow  bum-bum-hum  of  the  water- 
drum,  whisper  and  cluck  of  the  notched  sticks. 
A  very  old  man,  the  skin  of  whose  naked  legs 
was  grey  and  tough  as  elephant  hide,  had  at- 
tached ceremonial  circlets  of  dried  yucca  pods 
about  his  ankles  in  a  cuff  extending  almost  to 
the  knees.  He  took  his  stand  by  the  instru- 
mentalists and  his  feet  moved  in  a  shuffle  in 
time  to  the  drum  beats.  The  pods  emitted  dry 
[202] 


THE  ORDEAL 

whispers.  The  rapt  look  of  a  seer  was  on  his 
leathern  features. 

The  kettle  in  place,  Qnelele  himself  went  to 
a  small  pen  of  ocatilla  sticks  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  village  and  brought  therefrom  a  young 
rooster.  The  fowl's  head  bobbed  nervously  and 
his  small  eyes  glinted  as  he  was  carried  on  the 
big  Indian's  arm  through  the  throng.  Two 
helpers  lifted  the  edge  of  the  soap  kettle  while 
Quelele  thrust  the  cock  underneath.  A  faint 
clucking  came  muffled  from  the  iron  prison. 
The  bird  thrust  his  head  out  here  and  there 
from  beneath  the  rim,  seeking  egress. 

Now  Benicia  took  from  'Cepcion  something 
she  had  carried  wrapped  about  in  a  handker- 
chief and  carried  it  to  the  kettle  top.  She  let 
fall  the  handkerchief  and  with  a  slight  gesture 
focused  the  eyes  of  all  upon  the  stained  dagger. 
A  sigh  like  the  swish  of  a  scythe  in  long  grass 
swept  through  the  crowd  as  the  girl  balanced 
the  knife  on  the  exact  top  of  the  dome  of  fire- 
smudged  metal.  The  ancient  with  the  yucca 
rattles  did  a  sacrificial  step  which  caused  a 
sharp  alarm  like  that  of  the  desert  sidewinder's 
warning. 

Grant  and  Bim,  still  unaware  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  all  this  preparation,  sensed  the  grow- 
ing tensity  of  emotions  all  about  them.  The 
[203] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Papagoes,  like  all  their  kind,  more  than  ready- 
to  invest  with  ritual  any  untoward  incident  of 
life,  saw  in  the  white  girl's  preparations — par- 
ticularly in  the  offering  of  the  knife  upon  this 
rude  altar — formulaB  of  an  appeal  to  decision 
of  powers  beyond  human  comprehension.  Per- 
haps the  elders,  remembering  tales  of  ancient 
custom,  recognized  the  preliminaries  and  wel- 
comed a  revival  among  the  unregenerate 
younger  men  of  a  direct  appeal  to  Elder 
Brother.  If  big  Quelele  knew  better  he  had  kept 
his  tongue  still. 

Benicia's  features  had  never  relaxed  their 
cold  intentness  during  the  preparations.  There 
was  even,  to  Grant's  troubled  scrutiny,  some 
element  of  the  barbaric  there.  A  look  like  that 
on  the  stone  visage  of  an  Aztec  goddess,  im- 
placable, without  mortal  instincts.  She  took 
her  stand  by  the  kettle  and  spoke  rapidly  to 
the  Papagoes,  pointing  to  the  knife,  then  lifting 
her  finger  to  mark  the  place  of  the  sun  in  the 
white  sky. 

Abruptly  she  finished,  stooped  and  touched 
one  finger  to  the  bottom  of  the  kettle.  It  came 
away  blackened  by  soot.  Then  she  turned  to 
Grant.  *'It  is  the  test  of  God,"  she  said  in  a 
dulled  voice.  **My  people  have  used  it  in  times 
past  when  they  were  perplexed  as  I  am.  All 
[204] 


THE  ORDEAL 

here  including  you,  Senor  Hickman,  and  you, 
Senor  Bagley,  will  endure  this  test  even  as  I 
just  have  done.  Put  your  fingers  to  the  kettle 
and  show  them  to  all,  blackened.  God  will  speak 
through  the  mouth  of  the  imprisoned  cock  when 
the  guilty  man  touches  the  iron." 

Grant  gave  the  girl  a  steady  look,  then  with- 
out a  word  he  stepped  to  the  blackened  dome, 
swept  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  across  it 
and  held  them  aloft.  Benicia  was  looking  away 
when  Grant  stepped  back  beside  her ;  he  saw  a 
convulsive  movement  of  her  throat — ^no  other 
sign.  Then  big  Bim  dared  the  oracle  with  an 
easy  grace.  A  shuddering  intake  of  breath 
from  the  Indians  as  each  man  underwent  trial. 

Quelele  now  gave  an  order  which  brought  all 
the  men  of  the  village  and  great-house  into  line 
of  which  he  was  the  head.  Even  the  musicians 
were  replaced  by  squaws  who  did  not  permit 
the  drubbing  and  squeaking  to  diminish.  The 
faces  of  all  wore  the  set  look  of  hypnosis — eyes 
white  and  staring,  muscles  twittering  in  cheeks, 
tongues  licking  out  over  dried  lips. 

Thrut-t-t-t-t!  An  extra  flourish  of  the  rasp- 
ing sticks  and  a  thunder  of  the  water  drums 
as  Quelele  started  the  line  forward  toward  the 
kettle.  The  big  Indian  moved  with  a  mincing 
sidewise  step  reminiscent  of  some  deer-dance  of 
[205] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

his  people  at  the  festival  of  sahuaro.  His  arms 
were  held  rigidly  crooked  at  elbows  and  J&ngers 
splayed.  The  great  moon  face  was  contorted 
into  a  lolling  mask.    He  sweat  with  fear. 

Twice  the  lightning-like  bobbing  out  and  back 
of  the  imprisoned  cock's  head  as  Quelele  ap- 
proached. **Ai-ie!"  a  squaw  screamed  in  a 
frenzy. 

The  leader  touched  the  kettle,  held  up  his 
blackened  finger  for  those  in  line  behind  him  to 
see,  then  broke  from  line  and  stood  at  a  little 
distance  from  Benicia  and  the  two  white  men. 

Second  in  line  was  the  ancient  with  the  yucca 
rattles  on  his  legs.  Coming  to  the  kettle,  he 
stood  rigid,  tilted  his  old  eyes  to  the  blinding 
sun.  A  shiver  ran  down  his  body  which  caused 
every  dry  pod  of  his  anklets  to  emit  a  whisper. 
He  whirled  once,  dipped  and  swept  a  finger 
through  the  soot.  '^Njo  oovih  (Bird  speak- 
ing),'' he  cried,  and  there  was  foam  on  his  lips. 

But  the  bird  did  not  speak,  and  the  line  came 
slowly  on.  The  spell  of  the  weird  had  Grant 
bound.  The  rational  in  him  ti;ied  to  prompt 
that  all  this  was  but  a  shrewd  application  of 
the  new  psychological  method  of  crime  detec- 
tion as  utilized  by  primitive  peoples  before 
ever  the  science  of  the  mind  was  thought  of; 
[206] 


THE  ORDEAL 

but  Ms  imagination  strained  to  hear  the  crow- 
ing of  the  cock  when  the  finger  of  guilt  was 
laid  upon  the  iron  shell.  Mutter  of  the  drums, 
shuffle  of  dancing  feet,  guttural  calls  and  im- 
precations: these  things  had  swept  away  all 
prim  gauds  and  dressings  of  a  mind  counting 
itself  superior  and  he  was  swept  back  to  kin- 
ship with  the  wild,  its  children.  Again  the  des- 
ert moved  to  bring  him  under  its  subjection. 

*^Lookit  that  fellah!"  It  was  Bim  who 
gripped  Grant's  arm  and  pointed  to  the  ad- 
vancing line.  One  of  the  younger  bucks  had 
dodged  out  of  his  place  and  fallen  back  three 
numbers. 

On  came  the  men  facing  trial  by  ordeal. 
Now  and  again  the  imprisoned  cock  thrust  his 
head  out  with  snake-like  darting,  and  the  indi- 
vidual who  was  poised  over  the  kettle  hic- 
coughed fear.  The  young  man  who  had  dodged 
back  tried  the  trick  again  when  he  was  near 
the  kettle ;  but  the  one  behind  him  held  him  by 
the  shoulders  and  forced  him  on. 

The  dodger  came  to  the  place  of  test,  hesi- 
tated, made  a  downward  sweep  of  his  hand 
and  stumbled  past.  Big  Quelele  suddenly 
leaped  at  him  and  gripped  his  right  hand.  No 
smudge  of  soot  on  the  fingers. 
[207] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

**Hai — ee!''  Quelele  called,  and  the  line  stood 
still.  He  wrenched  the  young  man's  hand  high 
above  his  head  and  showed  the  fingers  clean. 
**Hai — ee!"  chorused  fifty  voices.  Quelele 
started  to  drag  the  wretch  back  to  the  kettle. 

Then  his  victim  went  to  his  knees — to  his 
face  in  the  dust.  He  rolled  and  kicked,  scream- 
ing. Still  Quelele  dragged  him  nearer  the 
kettle,  his  right  hand  firmly  gripped  in  the  vise 
of  his  own  two,  forefinger  extended  to  take  the 
print  of  soot  and  draw  the  cock's  crow. 

**I  did  it!  I  did  it!"  the  wretched  creature 
blubbered.  Quelele  dropped  him  as  if  he  were 
a  poisonous  lizard.  The  crowd  pushed  forward 
menacingly.  The  murderer  fumbled  in  his 
trousers  pocket  and  brought  out  a  shining  sil- 
ver peso,  which  he  threw  from  him  with  a  ges- 
ture of  horror.  Quelele  picked  it  up  and  turned 
it  over  in  his  palm,  his  brow  heavily  knotted. 
He  passed  it  to  Benicia. 

The  girl  turned  the  coin  over  to  the  reverse, 
whereon  the  spread  eagle  grips  a  snake  and  a 
cactus  branch  in  his  talons.  A  deep  knife  cut 
was  scored  through  the  neck  of  the  eagle. 

The  wretch  in  the  dust  saw  she  had  noted  the 

mutilation  and  cried  out  to  her  in  pleading, 

*'The  sign,  mistress!    The  sign!    The  soldier- 

senor  Urgo  tells  me  many  months  ago  when  I 

[208] 


THE  ORDEAL 

receive  the  sign  I  shall  kill  or  my  brother,  who 
is  in  his  prison,  will  be  shot!" 

**And  he  gave  you  this — "  the  girl  began. 

**  Yesterday,  mistress.  He  passes  me  in  his 
thunder- wagon  and  tosses  me  this  peso.  *Find 
the  knife  in  the  room  of  the  wounded  gringo 
senor,*  he  commands.    *Use  no  other.'  " 

Benicia  nodded  to  Quelele,  who  made  a  sign 
to  others.  They  brought  a  hair  rope  and 
trussed  the  murderer  hands  to  feet.  His  lips 
were  mute.  Stamp  of  fate  was  on  his  grey 
features.  He  knew  his  punishment :  to  be  taken 
to  the  burning  lava  fields  of  Pinacate,  where 
the  dead  volcanoes  are,  there  to  be  left  without 
gun  or  canteen;  no  man  would  see  him  again. 
Such  was  the  Papago  custom  decreed  for  mur- 
derers from  beforetime. 

She  who  had  ordained  this  trial  by  ordeal 
had  turned  away,  once  the  wretch's  confession 
had  been  heard.  The  soul  of  the  girl  now 
stood  its  own  trial  in  turn;  faced  by  the  guilt 
of  false  suspicion,  by  the  wounds  wrought  of 
bitter  accusation,  it  must  needs  purge  itself. 
Yes,  even  though  the  spirit  of  Benicia  0  'Dono- 
ju  was  not  one  easily  to  humble  itself.  A  long 
minute  she  fought  with  herself  and  finally 
turned  gropingly  to  make  her  hard  penance  be- 
fore Grant. 

[209] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Then  she  saw  the  figure  of  the  man  whose 
debtor  in  honour  she  was  striding  with  his  com- 
panion towards  the  avenue  of  palms  leading 
to  the  house.  The  distance  between  them 
seemed  suddenly  the  breadth  of  the  world. 


[210] 


I 


CHAPTEE  XVm 

THE   DESEKT   INTERVENES 

npHAT  day  omniscient  will  of  the  desert 
-*"  moved  to  point  a  murderer's  guilt  the 
same  inscrutable  power  flexed  a  finger  to  mould 
events  some  seventy  miles  away  from  the  Gar- 
den of  Solitude  where  the  worthy  doctor  from 
Arizora  and  his  Papago  had  been  nibbling  at 
a  mystery.  Though  Doc  Stooder  moved  in  a 
haze  of  strong  waters,  though  he  looked  upon 
the  face  of  the  desert  through  a  golden  veil 
of  his  own  weaving,  yet  was  he  not  the  least 
immune  from  the  law  of  the  waste  places.  The 
Doc  walked  with  God,  even  as  did  the  pioneer 
fathers  of  the  Church;  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
admit  the  companionship  had  no  influence  on 
the  operations  of  destiny. 

We  left  Stooder  on  his  knees  before  the  un- 
covered bell  with  its  inscription  carrying  iden- 
tification. His  excitements,  his  hysterical  grub- 
bings,  soundings  and  prospectings  of  the  ensu- 
ing twenty-four  hours  were  heroic.  After  the 
uncovering  of  the  bell  he  had  paced  off  a  square 
[211] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

throTigh  the  scrub  thirty  or  forty  feet  each  way 
and  with  the  corroded  cone  of  metal  for  a  cen- 
tre; then  the  Indian  and  he  had  gone  on  their 
hands  and  knees  over  every  inch  of  this  square. 
Result,  a  single  stick  of  hewn  timber  whose 
fire-blackened  end  had  projected  but  an  inch 
above  the  sand;  digging  revealed  a  twenty-foot 
beam,  dry  as  a  puff-ball  and  almost  ready  to 
disintegrate. 

That  was  all:  the  bell  and  the  uncovered 
beam.  But  that  was  enough.  Doc  Stooder 
knew  that  beneath  him  lay  the  mission  site; 
how  deeply  the  blown  sands  of  more  than  a 
century  had  buried  it  he  could  not  guess.  But 
it  was  here !  Here  lay  the  rich  core  of  a  legend 
that  had  sent  many  a  man  out  into  the  desert 
to  chase  rainbow  ends.  His  —  Stooder 'si 
A 'mighty  God!  how  he'd  riffle  those  pearls 
through  his  fingers — lay  'em  all  out  on  a  piece 
of  velvet  under  some  secret  lamp  and  match 
'em,  pearl  with  pearl. 

But  twenty-four  hours  in  the  desert  exact 
their  price;  and  that  price  is  in  measure  of 
water.  The  Doc  did  not  drink  water  so  long 
as  his  store  of  contraband  liquor  held  out;  but 
the  Papago  did.  Great  was  the  Doc's  rage 
and  disgust  when  his  companion  called  him 
away  from  sinking  a  prospect  shaft  to  point 
[212] 


THE  DESERT  INTERVENES 

the  single  remaining  water  container,  now  much 
lighter  than  it  should  be.  He  tested  the  little 
car's  radiator  to  find  that  evaporation  had  left 
almost  none  of  the  necessary  fluid  therein.  No 
use  huckin'  fate;  if  he  wanted  to  get  back  to 
the  village  of  the  Sand  People  on  four  wheels 
he'd  have  to  give  the  radiator  a  drink  and  that 
would  leave  none  for  himself  and  the  Papago. 

It  was  near  noon  of  their  second  day  at  the 
treasure  site  when  the  Doc  whipped  his  reluc- 
tance into  acceptance  of  the  inevitable.  He 
made  certain  preparations.  First  he  copied 
into  a  prescription  book  the  inscription  on  the 
bell;  that  would  do  to  convince  somebody 
whose  financing  of  the  excavation  operations} 
might  have  to  be  invoked.  Then  he  sketched  a 
map  of  the  vicinity  with  meticulous  care,  mark- 
ing in  the  jagged  spurs  of  the  nearby  moun- 
tains for  bearing  points  and  indicating  the  posi- 
tion of  the  bell  in  reference  to  a  dry  wash 
which  was  traced  down  from  a  gash  in  the 
mountain  wall. 

**  Guadalupe,  old  son,  your  old  friend 
Stooder's  goin'  rustle  back  here  with  an  outfit 
right  soon  an'  dig  himself  right  down  to  them 
pearls.  So  he's  just  a  mite  p'ticular  about  this 
map." 

Access  of  caution  prompted  the  Doc  to  dis- 
[213] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

motiTit  from  the  car  after  he'd  set  the  engine 
to  humming.  He  ran  back  with  a  shovel  and 
covered  the  bell  with  sand;  the  haggled  bush 
above  it  would  be  a  sufficient  guide  for  him  and 
no  significant  landmark  for  the  possible  pry- 
ing stranger.  The  beam  he  hid  in  the  wash. 
Then  they  trundled  down  their  own  track  and 
back  to  the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men.  Doc 
Stooder  cursed  the  necessity  of  automobiles 
leaving  tracks.  Some  snoozer  amblin'  along 
the  main  road  would  just's  like  as  not  turn  out 
to  follow  these  two  lines  out  into  nowhere  to 
see  what  he  could  see.    Then  perhaps — 

Summer  had  come  miraculously  to  the  desert 
overnight,  as  the  seasons  in  Altar  have  a  way 
of  doing.  Yesterday  the  pink  convolvulus  of 
spring  lay  in  scattered  coral  patches  amid  the 
scrub  and  the  greasewood  was  showing  its  mid- 
get spots  of  yellow.  Now  every  glistening 
clump  of  cholla  was  aglow  with  the  blood-red 
flowers  of  its  kind;  the  occasional  pillars  of 
the  giant  cactus  were  wreathed  each  at  its  top 
by  fillets  of  creamy  blossoms — grotesque  mas- 
querading of  these  withered  old  men  of  the 
wastes.  First  hint  of  summer's  heat  was 
abroad.  It  came  from  the  west  on  puffy  little 
winds  like  the  back-draught  from  an  oil- 
burning  boiler. 

[214] 


THE  DESERT  INTERVENES 

Tlie  Doc  found  himself  in  a  frolicsome  mood, 
for  his  night's  potations,  predicated  on  a 
dwindling  supply,  had  recklessly  drained  that 
supply  but  availed  to  carry  him  over  to  another 
day  with  the  stars  of  his  dream  world  still  burn- 
ing. Hunched  low  in  his  seat  so  that  the  tip  of 
his  goatee  waggled  against  the  rim  of  the  wheel, 
with  his  flopping  black  hat  all  grease  streaked 
pulled  low  against  the  sun  glare,  the  tramp  phy- 
sician chewed  tobacco  with  all  the  unction  ©f  a 
care-free  conscience  and  indulged  himself  in 
wandering  monologue.  Guadalupe's  meagre 
stock  of  Spanish  made  him  anything  but  a  lively 
conversationalist,  so  the  Doc  was  constrained 
to  carry  on  a  vivid  conversation  with  himself. 

Into  what  penetralia  of  reminiscence  this 
auto-dialogue  carried  him!  Back  through  the 
years — through  countless  dim  valleys  of  a 
Never-Never  Land  of  alcoholic  fantasies  where 
his  spirit  had  been  wont  to  pitch  its  tent. 
Scraps  of  jest  and  shreds  of  song  stirred  the 
ghosts  along  the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men. 

No  such  exuberance  from  Guadalupe,  slave 
of  the  desert.  They  had  not  been  an  hour  on 
the  road  when  the  Papago  began  to  feel  a  crawl- 
ing of  the  nerves  along  the  spine  and  the  pres- 
sure of  invisible  fingers  across  the  brow — evil 
signs!  No  less  than  the  mountain  sheep  or 
-       [215] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  road-runner  in  the  scrub  could  the  Papago 
interpret  the  desert's  forerunners  of  portent. 
A  feel  in  the  air — ^hue  of  the  mountain  rims — 
colour  of  sunlight  against  a  rock:  these  things 
had  their  meaning. 

Away  off  to  the  northward  where  a  patch  of 
gypsum  showed  white  as  film  ice  the  Indian's 
eye  caught  the  first  tangible  evidence  of  trouble 
ahead.  A  dust  whirlwind  like  a  gigantic  leg  in 
baggy  trousers  was  wavering  across  the  flats; 
the  thing  possessed  volition  of  its  own  so  surely 
did  it  map  its  course  across  a  five-mile  span  in 
less  than  five  minutes.  Guadalupe  nudged  his 
companion  timidly  and  pointed  to  it. 

**Uh-huh,  old  Peg -legged  Grandpap,'' 
chuckled  the  Doc.  *  *  Seen  him  lots  times.  Gotta 
hole  in  his  peg-leg  you  can  drive  a  car  through 
slick's  a  whistle — allowin'  you  can  find  the 
hole." 

A  half  hour  later  the  sun  changed  colour. 
Like  the  passing  of  a  shutter  across  a  calcium 
light:  now  blinding  white,  now  blood-orange. 
Instantaneous. 

Three  gusts  of  sand-laden  wind  came  sweep- 
ing toward  them  from  the  west.  A  long  lull, 
then  the  storm. 

It  pounced  upon  them  with  a  sibilant  whistle 
growing  momentarily  to  a  roar  which  was 
[216] 


THE  DESERT  INTERVENES 

engulfing.  The  little  desert  skimmer  bucked 
like  a  wild  colt  against  the  onslaught  of  the 
wind ;  but  when  the  Doc  dropped  the  engine  into 
low  the  car  wallowed  on  in  the  face  of  the  gale. 
The  air  was  thick  as  flour.  Wind-driven  sand 
had  the  bite  of  an  emery  wheel  at  high  revolu- 
tion ;  it  rasped  the  skin  and  drove  eyelids  tight 
shut.  The  two  in  the  car  buttoned  jackets  above 
their  noses  to  breathe. 

All  the  space  of  the  desert  was  a  poisonous 
yellow  glare.  Minute  by  minute  density  thick- 
ened until  the  car's  radiator  was  hardly  visible. 

Then  the  sturdy  engine  quit.  First  a  tortured 
grinding  of  clogged  cylinders,  puny  explosions 
from  the  exhaust,  a  bucking  and  quivering. 
After  that  sudden  stoppage  of  movement  as  if 
the  car  had  plumped  into  a  stone  wall. 

The  Doc  and  Guadalupe  tumbled  out  of  the 
seat  and  crawled  beneath  the  car  for  protection. 
A  stab  of  fear  shot  down  through  Stooder's  dis- 
ordered thoughts — the  water !  None  in  the  can- 
teens, for  they  had  drained  the  last  into  the 
radiator  before  starting  from  the  treasure 
ground.    "Was  there — could  the  sand  have — ? 

He  inched  himself  through  a  new  sand  drift 
below  the  front  axle  to  where  the  drain  cock 
projected  below  the  radiator  base.    Like  a  suck- 
ling kid  he  lifted  his  lips  to  the  steel  teat  and 
[217] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

turned  the  cock.  A  trickle  of  heavy  mud  filled 
his  mouth  with  grit,  then  stopped. 

Eadiator  a  mess  of  mud — cylinders  clogged 
— feed  pipes  all  choked  and  water — gone! 

Doc  Stooder  pulled  his  floppy  hat  over  his 
face  and  whimpered  the  name  of  God. 

And  on  the  back  trail  where  the  bell  of  the 
Lost  Mission  had  been  found;  over  that  site 
which  the  Doc  had  so  carefully  mapped  and 
measured  the  wind  scoured  and  builded — 
scoured  and  builded.  Obliterating,  changing, 
re-creating. 


[218] 


i 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THIRST 

npHE  sun  went  down  before  the  sand  storm 
-*•  abated.  Two  men,  the  one  called  civilized, 
the  other  a  savage,  crouched  like  rabbits  in  a 
covert  beneath  the  body  of  the  little  car  with  a 
high  sand  drift  piled  up  to  windward  even  over 
the  radiator  top.  Two  mites  in  the  wind- 
scourged  wilderness  of  Altar  with  love  o'  life 
the  leveller  that  made  them  kin. 

"When  the  last  vagrant  wind  fury  had  passed 
fell  silence  almost  terrific  by  contrast  with  the 
uproar  of  the  storm.  In  place  of  the  slithering 
and  whistling  of  driven  sand  an  oppressive  still- 
ness, which  seemed  dropped  from  the  void  of 
the  stars,  now  showing.  Occasionally  the  dry 
rustle  of  sand  dropping  in  rivulets  from  some 
desert  bush  lifting  its  head  after  the  scourging; 
that  was  all. 

When  the  two  crawled  out  from  beneath  their 

shelter  Guadalupe  was  for  an  immediate  start 

afoot  in  the  direction  of  the  faint  pencilings  of 

red  marking  the  west.    But  Doc  Stooder  pos- 

[219] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

sessed  an  abiding  glimmer  of  faith  in  the  sound- 
ness of  the  car  and  insisted  on  taking  stock  of 
its  motive  possibilities.  A  cursory  examination 
convinced  him  of  the  hopelessness  of  his  trust, 
for  the  sand  was  heaped  entirely  over  the  un- 
protected engine — desert  cars  dispense  with  a 
hood  because  it  blankets  the  engine 's  heat — and 
he  knew  that  even  with  water  in  the  radiator 
he  couldn't  get  a  kick  out  of  the  thing  before  a 
thorough  overhauling.  This  was  out  of  the 
question.  They  must  achieve  their  escape  from 
the  desert's  trap  afoot. 

The  Papago  started  on  a  swinging  walk  a 
little  north  of  west,  the  Doc  following.  They 
had  not  gone  far  when  the  white  man  discovered 
they  were  not  following  the  road ;  each  step  was 
through  loose  sand  which  received  the  foot  with 
a  viscous  hold  and  reluctantly  released  it.  The 
Doc  snarled  a  query  at  his  companion:  why  in 
the  name  of  deletion  had  he  quit  the  Road  of  the 
Dead  Men? 

**Not  quit — ^finding  him,"  came  Guadalupe's 
grudging  answer.  Then  Stooder  admitted  to 
himself  the  possibility  that  during  the  time  the 
little  car  had  pushed  on  into  the  storm  he  had 
tooled  it  off  the  road.  How  far  he  had  driven 
away  from  the  single  track  which  spans  Altar 
he  could  not  hazard  a  guess.  Anyway,  he  knew 
[220] 


THIEST 

one  thing :  he  was  dog  tired,  and  if  this  mangy 
black  coyote  thought  A.  Stooder,  M.D.,  was  go- 
ing to  wallow  through  sand  all  night  without  a 
sleep  he  had  another  think  coming. 

Reaction  from  the  excitements  of  the  past  two 
days  added  extra  weight  to  the  Doc's  already 
none-too-light  handicap  of  alcoholic  repercus- 
sions. The  storm  had  torn  his  nerves  to  tatters ; 
his  mouth  was  as  dry  as  an  old  church  pew 
cushion;  each  of  his  legs  felt  as  if  they  were 
dragging  an  Oregon  boot.  Stooder 's  mind  was 
too  dulled  to  probe  down  below  these  afflictions 
and  read  the  real  seriousness  of  his  situation; 
it  dealt  only  with  cogent  aches  and  reluctances. 

**Hey,  Guadalupe!  We  take  a  sleep  right 
here."  The  Doc  halted.  Great  was  his  surprise 
when  he  saw  the  Papago  striding  on.  Hot  rage 
bubbled  to  his  lips  in  an  explosive  Mexican  oath. 

**Hey,  you  lizard-eatin'  mozo,  hear  me?  We 
fctop  here  for  the  big  shut-eye!'*  The  Doc 
spurred  his  long  legs  into  a  gangling  run  to 
overtake  the  Indian,  who  had  plodded  on  un- 
heeding. All  the  arrogance  of  the  white  man 
in  his  fancied  superiority  fell  with  the  doctor 's 
hand  on  the  Indian's  shoulder.  Guadalupe 
wrenched  free  and  turned  to  face  him  sulkily. 

**  Sleep  here — to-morrow  much  sun — no 
water.  Maybe  to-morrow  we  die  here.  Walk ! ' ' 
[221] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Guadalupe's  sparse  vocabulary  of  Spanish 
words  was  drained;  but  the  manner  of  his  re- 
suming the  forward  hike  was  sufficiently  elo- 
quent. Guadalupe,  born  to  the  desert  code  and 
grown  to  manhood  under  the  inexorable  desert 
law,  had  in  mind  but  a  single  impulse — to  sur- 
vive. His  mind  plumped  through  the  bog  of  dis- 
comforts wherein  Stooder's  was  mired  to  read 
clearly  the  tablets  of  the  desert's  decalogue :  ten 
commandments  in  one — live!  In  extremity 
throw  over  loyalty,  discard  obligations  of  oath 
or  of  blood,  strip  the  soul  to  its  elemental  self- 
ishness ;  but  live ! 

Guadalupe  strode  on,  still  bearing  to  the  north 
and  the  west,  and  still  no  road.  Stooder,  grow- 
ing more  weary  each  step,  spent  his  strength 
in  blind  rage  at  the  stubbornness  of  the  Papago. 
He  conned  over  various  capital  operations  he 
would  like  to  perform  with  Guadalupe  for  a 
subject.  His  brain  tired  of  that  and  began  to 
nurture  the  germ  of  a  new  thought.  Why  strain 
himself  keeping  up  with  that  ring-tailed  kanga- 
roo rat  who  skipped  on  and  on  without  rest? 
Guadalupe  left  the  print  of  his  foot  every  step 
he  took;  those  footprints  would  point  to  wher- 
ever Guadalupe  might  go — and  the  Papago,  of 
course,  knew  the  shortest  way  out  of  this  hell- 
hole— so  why  break  his  own  neck?  The  old  Doc 
[222] 


THIEST 

would  take  a  little  snooze  and  then  jnst  follow 
the  footprints  when  he  felt  good  and  ready  to 
do  so. 

The  gangling  form  crumpled  up  as  if  cut  off 
at  the  knees.  Guadalupe  heard  a  thud,  turned 
for  a  half -glance  over  his  shoulder  and  pushed 
steadily  on  under  the  stars.  It  was  not  in  the 
Papago's  code  to  add  one  ounce  to  the  weight 
of  circumstance  obtruding  between  himself  and 
water.  In  a  dozen  steps  his  figure  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  dark. 

Stooder  may  have  allotted  to  himself  only 
that  minimum  of  sleep  designated  as  a  snooze. 
But  a  high  sun  pried  open  his  reluctant  eyelids. 
He  sat  up  and  sent  a  dazed  glance  around  an 
unfamiliar  world.  Mountains  tawny  and  black 
with  knife-edge  water  scores  down  their  flanks ; 
a  sea  of  scrub  stretching  interminably  from 
their  bases ;  patches  of  gypsum  and  salitre  show- 
ing dull  white  as  scars  of  leprosy  here  and  there 
amid  the  grey-green  of  the  camisa.  The  sky 
already  was  taking  on  the  yellow-white  glaze  in- 
dicative of  imminent  heat. 

The  Doc  arose  and  shook  the  sand  out  of  the 
creases  of  his  clothing.  First  definite  impres- 
sion coming  to  him  was  the  need  of  a  drink: 
his  favourite  tequila  if  might  be,  water  in  a 
pinch.  All  the  nerves  in  his  body  twittered 
[223] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

'*Hear — hearP'  to  the  first  of  the  alternatives. 
Then,  his  mind  beginning  to  function  along  the 
line  of  the  night's  impressions,  Doc  Stooder 
read  the  story  of  the  footprints  leading  off  to 
the  north  and  west.  There  they  were :  good  lil 
signposts;  they'd  take  him  to  a  drink  just  as 
easy! 

Stooder 's  renewed  strength  carried  him  eas- 
ily along  the  trail  the  Papago  had  left.  For 
an  hour,  that  is;  then  trouble.  For  the  sand 
disappeared  under  a  broad  apron  of  caliche — 
a  hardpan  of  baked  mineral  salts  and  earth  al- 
most impervious  even  to  the  shod  hoof  of  a 
horse.  It  was  like  a  door  swung  shut  on  the 
trailer — the  locked  door  to  some  labyrinth  be- 
yond. Here  the  last  firm  print  of  a  boot  in 
the  sand,  there  nothingness.  The  Doc  paused, 
looked  back  over  the  cup-like  shadows  marking 
the  footprint  trail  he  had  been  following  to 
take  its  line  of  direction,  then  he  pushed  ahead 
along  that  line. 

Another  hour,  and  he  still  was  on  the  caliche 
outcrop.  He  stopped  to  consider.  Where  in 
the  name  of  all  the  angels  was  that  road — the 
Road  of  the  Dead  Men?  If  he'd  driven  the  car 
a  little  south  of  it  during  the  sand  storm,  surely 
Guadalupe  must  have  cut  tangent  to  it  by  this 
time.  And  if  the  road  passed  over  the  caliche 
[224] 


THIRST 

flat  there ^d  be  wheel  marks;  that  was  sure. 
Miss  that  road  and  miss  the  Papago  ^s  trail  both 
— ^why  then  old  Doc  Stooder'd  be  a  goner ! 

He  tried  to  follow  his  own  back  trail  by  such 
small  signs  as  the  scratch  of  a  hobnail  against 
an  embedded  rock  and  a  thin  print  of  a  sole  in 
a  pocket  of  dust.  A  while  and  he  had  lost  even 
that.  He  stopped  and  swabbed  his  streaming 
face  with  a  shirtsleeve — he  now  was  carrying 
his  coat. 

**By  the  eternal,  Stooder,  you  gotta  do  some- 
thing— and  do  it  dam'd  pronto  I'* 

Once  more  he  turned  on  his  own  tracks.  Bet- 
ter go  back  and  find  that  putrid  Papago 's  trail 
and  let  the  road  go  to  the  devil.  Whole  half 
hour  wasted  already — ^good  half  hour,  by  crim- 
iny !  with  a  drink  just  that  much  farther  off. 

It  was  not  so  easy  finding  the  scored  rocks 
and  the  stamp  of  a  heel  in  pools  of  dust ;  not  so 
easy  as  the  first  essay.  For  the  sun  was  at 
meridian  now  and  foreshortened  little  shadows 
to  nothingness.  Plump !  he  came  to  the  edge  of 
the  hardpan  and  into  the  sandy  soil.  No  tracks 
there.  Should  he  bear  to  right  or  left  in  cir- 
cling the  edge  of  the  caliche  on  his  hunt  for  the 
footprints?  If  he  guessed  wrong  where 'd  he 
be!    *^0h,  dear  God !'» 

He  turned  to  the  left  and  resumed  his  tramp. 
[225] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

Furnace  light  refracted  from  the  sand  seared 
into  his  eyes,  which  must  be  always  kept  down- 
ward peering — spying.  His  mouth  now  was  dry 
as  rotted  wood.  Something  alien  there  kept 
bothering  him  by  pressing  against  the  roof  of 
it.  He  explored  with  his  fingers  and  discovered 
the  alien  object  to  be  his  tongue,  which  was 
swelling. 

*^But  my  mind's  clear — clear  as  a  bell.  Got 
a  steady  mind  anyway.  Gotta  hold  onto  that 
or  I'm  a  gone  coon." 

A  slight  breeze  struck  his  right  arm  more 
penetratingly  than  it  should.  Stooder  shifted 
his  glance  to  his  arm,  held  crooked. 

^  *  Good  God !  Coat 's  gone ! ' '  Dropped  some- 
where— that  coat  in  whose  pocket  was  a  pre- 
scription book ;  among  its  pages  the  map  of  the 
treasure  site.  The  precious  map  showing  where 
lay  the  bell  and  the  beam!  The  man  whirled 
and  started  on  a  staggering  run  along  the  rim 
of  the  caliche  he  had  been  travelling. 

*  *  Must  find  that  coat !  Don 't  find  the  coat  an  * 
I  lose  the  pearls  an'  the  gold — the  pearls  an'  the 
gold!" 

He  halted  as  if  shot.    Down  the  wind  came  to 

him  the  faint  tolling  of  a  bell.    Dong — dong. 

Silvery  throb  of  a  swinging  bell.     Measured, 

unhurried ;  like  the  sounding  of  a  bell  for  mass 

.[226] 


THIRST 

of  a  Sunday  morning.  The  Doc  had  heard  the 
bell  of  San  Xavier  sending  its  call  across  the 
alfalfa  fields  of  a  Sunday  morning,  just  like 
that. 

Even  as  he  strained  his  ears  to  drink  in  the 
full  miracle  of  it  the  sound  faded,  ceased. 

**I  heard  it!  A  bell!  No  illusion.  Mind's 
still  clear — still  clear!"  On  he  went,  his  gaunt 
legs  weaving  in  wide  circles.  He  came  to  a 
dark  patch  on  the  hardpan  and  strided  over  it, 
unheeding.  It  was  his  missing  coat,  in  the 
pocket  the  precious  map  of  the  treasure  site. 
The  Doc  did  not  see  the  coat  because  again  his 
ears  were  drinking  in  the  maddening  tolling  of 
the  bell;  this  time  a  little  clearer  down  the 
wind  in  his  face.  An  animal  cry,  half  articu- 
late, burst  from  his  swollen  lips : 

**The  mission  bell!  Bell  of  the  Four  Evan- 
gelists which  I  found  t'other  day!  Callin'  me 
back!" 

Right  over  yonder  where  the  mountains 
cracked  apart  to  let  that  arroyo  down  onto 
the  plain:  that's  where  the  bell  sounded.  Yes, 
sir,  no  mistake  about  it.  'Bout  four-five  mile, 
judgin'  from  the  sound.  Hear  what  that  bell's 
a-callin'?    '^Gol-l-ld!    Gol-l-ld!" 

Doc  Stooder,  coatless,  hatless,  the  high  roach 
of  his  streaked  hair  fanning  in  the  hot  winds, 
[227] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

was  stumbling  and  falling — stumbling  and  fall- 
ing ever  forward  toward  the  crack  in  the  moun- 
tains. Light  of  madness  flamed  in  his  eyes ;  his 
great  arms  clawed  forward  as  if  to  catch  in- 
visible supports  to  pull  him  the  faster.  Gol-l-ld 
— Gol-Ud! 

*^01d  mind's  still  clear,  else  couldn't  hear  that 
mission  bell  so  plain —  Gotta  keep  old  mind 
clear — " 

The  way  of  the  desert  god,  always  beyond 
man's  comprehending,  nevertheless  sometimes 
approaches  so  close  to  the  human  scheme  of 
thought  and  motive  as  to  permit  of  analogy  with 
it.  When  the  director  of  destinies  in  the  dry 
wastes  seems  to  make  a  travesty  of  such  a  sacro- 
sanct quality  as  human  justice  we  may  be  moved 
to  call  the  impulse  satiric  for  want  of  a  better 
name.  Satiric,  then,  that  reversal  of  the  decree 
of  death  passed  upon  the  Papago  youth  who 
confessed  to  murder  before  the  overturned 
kettle  at  the  Casa  O'Donoju;  more  than  satiric 
the  moving  finger  now  directing  his  path 
through  the  dead  lands  up  to  a  union  with  the 
crazed  doctor's. 

According  to  ancient  custom  the  Indian  re- 
tainers of  the  O'Donoju  had  taken  the  youth — 
his  baptismal  name  was  Ygnacio — down  to  the 
[228] 


THIEST 

crater  land  of  the  Pinacate  and  there  turned 
him  loose  without  water  to  wander  for  a  while 
and  finally  to  die  miserably.  Other  murderers 
had  been  so  treated  and  never  had  been  seen 
of  men  again.  But  the  desert  god  who  slays 
so  peremptorily  knew  that  Ygnacio  had  done  the 
bidding  to  murder  to  save  his  brother  from 
death — had  killed  without  malice  and  only  as 
the  price  of  redemption  for  one  of  his  blood. 
Wherefore  the  arbiter  of  life  and  death  flung 
life  at  Ygnacio. 

When  he  was  athirst  almost  to  the  point  of 
exhaustion  he  found  a  knob-like  growth  a  scant 
two  inches  above  the  surface  of  the  ground,  rec- 
ognized it  for  a  promise  of  succour  and  with  the 
last  ounce  of  his  strength  dug  the  deep  sand  all 
about  it.  The  end  of  his  effort  gave  to  him  a 
strange  and  rare  vegetable  reservoir  like  an 
elongated  radish,  which  miraculously  holds 
scant  moisture  of  summer  rains  the  year  round. 
**Eoot-of-the-sands"  the  Sonorans  have  named 
it.  In  the  desolation  between  the  Pinacate  and 
the  Gulf  even  the  coyotes  have  the  wisdom  to 
dig  for  this  precious  sustainer  of  life. 

Ygnacio  devoured  the  whole  of  the  root  and 

was  revived.    He  found  others,  which  he  tied 

into  a  bundle  to  carry  over  his  shoulders.    Food 

and  drink  had  come  to  him  from  the  hand  of 

[229] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Elder  Brother  himself  when  it  was  decreed  by 
man  he  should  have  neither.  Wherefore  love 
0 '  life  once  more  burned  strong  in  the  man.  He 
set  his  course  northward,  travelling  only  by 
night  when  the  heat  had  given  place  to  the 
biting  desert  chill,  keeping  his  precious  roots 
buried  in  the  sand  while  he  slept  by  day  so  that 
evaporation  would  not  rob  him  of  the  promise 
of  escape  from  inferno.  Straight  as  an  arrow 
northward  where,  beyond  the  Line,  lay  tribes 
of  Papagoes  who  never  had  heard  of  Don 
Padraic  O'Donoju  nor  of  a  murderer  named 
Ygnacio. 

So  it  happened  that  on  the  third  night  of  his 
march,  when  Ygnacio  had  paused  to  munch  a 
segment  of  the  sustaining  root,  came  to  his  ears 
the  sound  of  a  voice,  faintly  and  from  a  great 
distance.  It  might  be  a  human  voice,  though 
there  was  a  burred  and  thickened  quality  to  it 
almost  like  a  burro's  bray. 

The  Indian  boldly  followed  where  his  ears 
gave  direction.  *'Gol' — goP — goP  "  was  the 
monotonous  iteration,  sounding  almost  like  the 
muffled  tapping  of  a  clapper  against  metal.  He 
walked  a  mile — so  clearly  do  sounds  carry  in 
the  desert  night — and  suddenly  came  upon  the 
figure  of  a  white  man.  Naked  above  the  waist, 
[230] 


THIRST 

wisp  of  a  goatee  tilted  at  the  stars,  arms  rigid 
at  sides  and  with  fingers  widespread,  the  spectre 
of  a  white  man  chanted  the  single  word, 
^^Gold." 


[231] 


CHAPTEE  XX 

THE    COMING    OF    EL    DOCTOE 

npHE  sandstorm  that  overwhelmed  Stooder 
-■•  and  his  guide  on  the  Road  of  the  Dead 
Men  brought  the  mighty  voice  of  the  desert  to 
the  Garden  of  Solitude  in  requiem  for  the  soul 
of  Don  Padraic  O'Donoju.  Savage  elegy  of  a 
life  lived  in  communion  with  the  spirit  of  the 
wild. 

There  was  no  priest  to  order  the  funeral  rites 
of  the  Church.  Though  a  day's  journey  in 
Quelele's  car  to  Caborca  and  back  would  have 
fetched  a  minister  of  religion,  Benicia  was  de- 
termined word  of  her  father's  death  should  not 
reach  the  man  who  provoked  it  sooner  than  the 
courses  of  rumour  allowed.  The  Caborca  priest 
posting  out  to  the  Casa  O'Donoju  would  set 
tongues  wagging  instantly  and  the  seal  of  si- 
lence imposed  by  miles  of  unj^eopled  space  be- 
tween the  casa  and  the  nearest  community 
would  be  broken.  *  *  The  service  of  the  heart  will 
be  just  as  acceptable  to  my  father's  spirit,"  was 
[232] 


THE  COMING  OF  EL  DOCTOR 

Benicia's    simple   justification    to    herself    of 
breach  of  custom. 

So  in  the  heat  haze  preceding  the  storm  six 
Indians  bore  the  body  of  their  master  through 
fields  of  alfalfa  behind  the  white  house  down  to 
a  grove  of  shimmering  alamo  trees  which 
fringed  a  reservoir  of  the  oasis'  precious  water. 
Here  beneath  the  white  and  silver-green  tent  of 
the  trees  was  sanctified  ground.  Here  lay  the 
dust  of  lords  and  ladies  of  a  desert  principality 
who,  for  their  spans  of  years,  had  been  inheri- 
tors of  the  desert's  cruelties  and  benefices. 

Grant  fell  in  with  the  file  of  dark-skinned 
mourners  that  followed  behind  the  body  of  Don 
Padraic,  with  him  Bagley.  They  did  this  un- 
bidden of  Benicia.  Neither  had  seen  her  since 
the  dramatic  climax  of  the  ordeal  of  the  kettle 
the  day  before;  no  word  had  come  from  her. 
Yet  each  had  felt  the  need  to  succour  the  be- 
reaved girl  in  her  great  loneliness,  forgetting 
unhappy  events  of  the  dawn  in  the  patio. 

For  Grant  there  had  been  a  brief  struggle 
with  pride  and  outraged  sensibilities — ^blessedly, 
brief  because  a  broader  tolerance  and  finer  man- 
hood had  rallied  to  overthrow  the  narrower 
view  of  selfishness.  In  the  light  of  the  terrific 
blow  that  had  been  dealt  the  girl  he  loved — ? 
all  the  more  crushing  because  of  its  sudden- 
[233] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

ness — the  savage  reaction  of  a  high  spirit 
seemed  to  him  not  so  to  be  wondered  at.  Nor 
Benicia's  silence  since.  In  these  dark  hours 
there  was  no  place  in  her  heart  for  aught  but 
unassuaged  grief. 

Arrived  at  the  alamo  grove,  all  the  Indians 
of  the  village  and  household  massed  themselves 
a  little  way  apart  from  freshly  turned  sod,  their 
glistening  black  heads  dappled  by  the  silhou- 
ettes of  the  leaves,  their  eyes  restless  and  awe- 
struck. Benicia,  garbed  in  dull  black  which 
made  the  whiteness  of  her  face  and  uncovered 
glory  of  her  hair  the  more  striking,  stood  at 
the  head  of  the  rude  housing  fashioned  by  the 
Papagoes  for  her  beloved  clay;  her  calm  was 
absolute  as  that  of  the  iron  peaks  beyond  the 
oasis  green.  In  her  hand  was  a  wreath  the 
Indian  women  had  woven — scarlet  flowers  of 
the  cactus  with  feathery  acacia  intertwined. 

In  a  steady  voice  the  girl  read  a  Latin  prayer 
while  the  Indians  knelt.  Then  with  a  lingering 
touch  she  laid  the  scarlet  and  olive-green  wreath 
upon  the  pall  and  watched  the  glowing  spot  of 
colour  slowly  sink  from  sight. 

Suddenly  the  recessional :  the  sand  storm  with 

its  clamour  of  incoherent  desert  tongues  crying 

hidden  tragedies,  its  blinding  sheets  of  sand. 

When  the  first  blast  struck  the  group  turning 

[234] 


THE  COMING  OF  EL  DOCTOR 

away  from  the  grave  Grant  stepped  quickly  to 
Benicia's  side,  drew  her  arm  protectingly 
through  his  and  bent  his  body  to  shield  her 
from  the  myriad  chisels  of  the  driven  sand. 
He  fought  for  footing  for  them  both. 

At  his  touch  Benicia  turned  dry  eyes  to  his. 
Swiftly  she  read  the  love  there — ^love  triumph- 
ing over  the  hurt  she  had  so  lately  given  him. 
On  the  instant  tears  filmed  the  hard  brightness 
of  the  orbs  Grant  looked  down  upon.  Her  lips 
moved  in  some  halting  speech  of  contrition,  but 
the  savage  blast  snatched  away  the  sound  of 
her  words.  In  the  softening  of  those  eyes  and 
the  weight  of  her  body  clinging  nervelessly  to 
him  the  man  was  told  the  whole  story  of  a 
girl's  amends  for  hasty  and  unconsidered  ac- 
tion. All  her  iron  will  which  had  carried  her 
head  high  through  hours  of  grief  suddenly  had 
sped  from  her,  leaving  her  groping  and  de- 
pendent. 

An  exalted  sense  of  guardianship  came  to 
Grant — swept  over  him  like  a  cool  breeze  to  a 
fever  patient.  Almost  it  was  a  feeling  of  holy 
trust  bestowed.  At  last — at  last  the  woman  he 
loved  had  battled  against  bitter  fate  beyond  the 
limit  of  her  endurance  and  was  turning  to  him 
to  fend  for  her.  Unheeding  the  twinges  his 
wound  gave  him,  he  bent  to  the  blast  with  his 
[235] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

precious  burden.  Oh,  if  only  he  could  be  given 
liberty  to  sweep  her  into  his  arms,  to  call  her 
name  in  the  piety  of  supreme  love,  snatch  her 
away  from  the  incubus  of  dread  which  had  set- 
tled upon  her  so  relentlessly. 

He  would  not  wait  for  such  opportunity — so 
the  thought  came  lancing  at  him  in  a  lightning 
flash  of  resolution;  he  would  create  it!  No 
longer  stand  idly  by  with  footless  compassion 
while  the  girl  of  his  heart  remained  in  chains 
of  a  fixed  idea  too  strong  for  her  to  break.  He 
himself  would  free  her  of  those  shackles  even 
if  he  had  to  fight  her  fiery  will  to  do  it ! 

While  the  storm  furiously  grappled  with  the 
palms  outside,  Bim  and  Grant  sat  in  the  dark 
music  room  of  the  great-house.  With  hushed 
voices  the  two  friends  conned  over  the  situa- 
tion facing  them  and  the  girl  now  left  alone 
in  the  immensity  of  Altar.  Not  a  simple  exi- 
gency. On  the  one  hand  promptings  of  delicacy 
and  the  dictates  of  custom  ruled  against  their 
remaining  longer  in  the  Casa  O'Donoju.  Op- 
posed to  this  was  the  alternative  of  leaving 
Benicia  to  become  a  prey  to  the  schemes  of 
Colonel  Urgo — a  girl  fighting  single-handed  the 
craft  of  an  implacable  enemy.  Without  a  pro- 
tector other  than  the  Indians  of  the  oasis — • 
and  they  had  the  minds  of  children — 'the  girl 
[236] 


THE  COMING  OF  EL  DOCTOR 

could  not  combat  this  unscrupulous  wooer  for 
long.    What  then? 

Bim  finally  summed  the  situation:  **It  comes 
down  to  this,  old  side-pardner ;  either  you've 
got  to  persuade  her  to  come  back  to  Arizona 
with  us  mighty  pronto  or  to  marry  you,  putting 
it  bald-headed  like*" 

Grant's  mind  leaped  to  grapple  with  the  flash 
of  an  idea — the  one  that  had  come  to  him  when 
he  and  the  girl  breasted  the  sandstorm.  Resolu- 
tion crystallized  on  the  instant.  He  silently 
quizzed  his  friend  with  an  appraising  eye. 

**And  if  I  can't  persuade  her!"  he  queried 
softly. 

*'Then  you  simply  trundle  yourself  away 
from  here  and  up  across  the  Line,  knowing  that, 
sure  as  shootin',  this  wolf  Urgo'll  be  down  on 
her  just  as  soon  as  he  makes  up  his  mind  to 
move."  The  big  fellow  in  the  firelight  stressed 
inevitability  in  his  dictum.  Grant  gave  him  a 
cryptic  smile. 

**  Suppose  I  take  her  anyway  if  she  will  not 
be  persuaded?"  Bim  jerked  back  his  head  and 
surveyed  his  friend  with  startlement  which 
speedily  softened  to  a  wide  grin.  Out  went  his 
hand  to  clap  Grant's  knee. 

'*Now  you're  too  tin' I" 

Once  he  had  put  his  resolution  into  words,  the 
[237] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

idea  back-fired  to  scorch  Grant  with  sudden  com- 
prehension of  what  would  be  involved  in  such  a 
cavalierly  course  of  action.  Actually  to  steal 
Benicia  0  'Dono ju !  Take  her  by  force  from  the 
home  which  now  was  hers  to  rule.  Play  the 
very  part  which  he  feared  Colonel  TJrgo  would 
pursue  if  left  alone.  He  scarcely  heard  Bim 
rumbling  his  enthusiasms. 

** That's  the  pure  quill!"  the  desert  man  was 
saying.  ** That's  the  Grant  Hickman  who 
brought  me  in  on  his  back  from  a  section  of 
Heinle's  first  line  trench  with  H.E.'s  droppin' 
round  like  gumdrops  from  a  baby's  torn  candy 
bag."  He  checked  himself  to  launch  the  ques- 
tion, **Have  you  got  a  line  on  the  girl  yet  I  I 
mean,  do  you  think  she  fancies  you  enough  to 
be  glad — after  you've  run  away  with  her!" 

*'I  think  so,"  was  Grant's  simple  answer. 

**Fine  business!  The  sooner  the  quicker, 
young  fellah.  You  an'  her  an'  me  in  the  li'l  old 
desert  skimmer.  'Cause  I  gotta  get  back  to 
Arizora.  The  old  Doc '11  think  I've  thrown  him 
down  an',  besides,  my  own  business — " 

**You  mean  you'll  go  ahead  with  Stooder  on 
his  scheme  for  finding  the  Lost  Mission?"  Grant 
cut  in  impetuously.  The  big  love  he  bore  Bag- 
ley  jealously  demanded  an  answer.  The  other 
reached  over  to  lay  a  hand  on  Grant's  shoulder. 
[238] 


THE  COMING  OF  EL  DOCTOR 

**No.  That's  all  off,  old  son.  I  couldn't  go 
prying  around  after  lost  treasure  that  belongs 
to  the  girl's  family — ^more  particular  not  after 
what  you've  told  me  I  couldn't.  I  promise  you 
I'll  head  off  the  Doc  if  I  have  to  get  him  thrown 
in  the  car  eel  for  boot-legging." 

The  storm  wore  itself  to  a  final  sibilant  whis- 
per among  the  tortured  palms  and  the  two  con- 
tinued to  sit  in  the  room  of  shadows  with  the 
complexities  of  the  daring  plan  of  kidnapping 
still  bulking  large.  'Cepcion  tip-toed  in  to  an- 
nounce to  Bim  in  an  awed  whisper,  **E1  Doctor 
Coyote  Belly  from  Babinioqui  has  come  through 
the  storm.    Shall  I  disturb  the  mistress  ? ' ' 

Bim  translated  to  Grant  with  a  questioning 
tilt  of  the  eyebrows.  Grant  started  at  the  name 
of  the  medicine  man  who  had  been  his  rescuer 
and  to  whom  he  owed  his  life.  What  could  have 
brought  this  old  Indian  away  across  the  expanse 
of  Altar  to  drop  out  of  the  storm  upon  the  house 
of  mourning! 

**Tell  her  we  will  see  him  first,"  Grant  di- 
rected, moved  as  he  was  by  some  half -sensed  in- 
stinct of  protection  for  Benicia ;  evil  tidings — if 
such  the  Indian  bore — must  be  kept  from  her. 
The  two  rose  and  followed  the  waddling  Indian 
woman  through  the  halls  to  the  servants '  quar- 
ters in  the  rear.  Under  a  pepper  tree  in  the 
[239] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

fading  dusk  they  found  the  squat  figure  of  Coy- 
ote Belly.  The  Indian  doffed  his  hat  at  the 
approach  of  the  white  men  and  stood  smiling; 
there  was  in  his  pose  something  of  quiet  dig- 
nity which  bent  little  before  the  centuries-old 
convention  of  the  white  man's  superiority.  His 
beady  eyes,  well  larded  in  creasy  folds,  pos- 
sessed intelligence  beyond  the  ordinary. 

Grant  impulsively  took  El  Doctor's  hand  in 
a  strong  grip  carrying  the  thanks  he  could  not 
speak.  El  Doctor's  eyes  mirrored  recognition 
and  he  bobbed  his  head  with  a  broadening  smile. 

**Tell  him,  Bim,  I  could  not  thank  him  for 
all  he  did  for  me.  He  is  the  chap  that  found 
me  on  the  Hermosillo  road,  you  know,  and  pulled 
me  through."  Bim  put  the  words  in  Spanish 
and  El  Doctor  bobbed  his  head  again.  Then  the 
Indian  began  haltingly  in  the  same  tongue. 
Bim's  eyes  narrowed  to  a  quizzical  pucker  as  he 
progressed.  Grant  could  read  a  spreading  won- 
der in  his  friend's  features. 

**The  old  bird  says  he  came  here  because  he 
knew  Don  Padraic  had  been  killed,"  Bim  re- 
peated. *'Says  he  knew  it  the  night  of  the 
murder  because  a  star  fell  in  the  west  and  he 
saw  the  picture  of  the  old  Don  with  a  knife  in 
his  heart — saw  it  in  the  water  of  his  medicine 
olla.  So  he's  been  on  the  trail  ever  since  be- 
[240] 


THE  COMING  OF  EL  DOCTOR 

cause  he's  got  to  tell  Senorita  Benicia  some- 
thing.'' 

^*But,"  Grant  began  incredulously.  Bim 
caught  him  up  with,  **Sure,  I  know  it  sounds 
phoney.  But  I  know,  too,  the  old  boy's  telling 
the  truth.  These  desert  people  have  a  way  of 
seeing  across  space — reading  signs  and  such — 
which  leaves  us  white  folks  gasping —  How's 
that?"  He  turned  an  ear  to  El  Doctor,  who 
had  begun  to  speak  again. 

**  Standing- White-in-the-Sun  was  my  father 
and  my  brother,"  the  medicine  man  gravely  in- 
toned. **He  gave  me  pinole  when  I  was  starv- 
ing. He  came  to  my  house  at  the  festival  of  the 
sahuaro  wine  and  drank  with  me  as  a  brother. 
His  child.  Lightning  Hair,  is  as  my  own  child." 

Depth  of  feeling  was  sweeping  El  Doctor  like 
a  storm.  His  grey  head  trembled  and  drops  of 
moisture  stood  in  his  eyes.  Bim  gently  checked 
him  with,  *  *  The  senorita  is  oppressed  with  grief. 
If  we  could  take  your  message  to  her — "  But 
El  Doctor  shook  his  head. 

**She  will  see  me.  She  will  hear  what  El 
Doctor  Coyote  Belly  has  come  through  the 
storm  to  tell." 

**Yes,  she  will  hear,"  came  an  unexpected 
voice  from  the  direction  of  the  doorway,  and 
Benicia  walked  up  to  the  Indian.  El  Doctor 
[241] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

made  a  step  forward  to  meet  her;  with  a  ges- 
ture of  reverence  he  took  the  hand  stretched 
out  to  him  and  placed  it  first  on  his  brow  then 
over  his  heart.  His  old  eyes  shone.  The  two 
white  men  turned  and  walked  beyond  earshot. 
From  a  distance  Grant  saw  the  girl  lead  the 
medicine  man  to  a  rustic  seat  beneath  the 
pepper  tree;  snatches  of  barbarous  Papago 
speech  came  to  his  ears. 

The  glory  of  sunset,  more  glorious  because  of 
the  dust  held  in  suspension  in  the  air,  came  and 
passed  and  still  Benicia  and  the  medicine  man 
talked  beneath  the  pepper  tree.  The  evening 
meal  was  a  mournful  affair,  with  only  Grant 
and  Bim  at  the  candle-lit  table.  Grant,  unable 
to  contain  his  restlessness,  quit  the  house  alone 
when  supper  was  finished ;  he  walked  down  the 
avenue  of  palms  in  the  direction  of  the  red  fires 
marking  the  Indian  village.  The  night  was 
luminous  with  that  sheen  which  covers  the  des- 
ert heavens  like  a  bloom.  Thin  rind  of  a  moon 
hung  low  in  the  west,  a  cold  glow  of  nacre. 

He  had  crossed  the  bridge  and  was  about  to 
turn  off  into  an  adjacent  field  when  he  heard  a 
footstep  in  the  shadowed  aisle  below  palm  tops 
ahead  of  him.  A  figure  scarce  discernible  in  its 
black  garb  came  upon  him. 

**  Benicia  r' 

[242] 


THE  COMING  OF  EL  DOCTOR 

She  stopped,  startled.  **Ali,  it  is  you,''  was 
her  murmured  greeting  as  Grant  stepped  to  her 
side. 

** Alone  and  in  the  dark,''  he  chided,  but  the 
girl  tossed  off  his  fears  with  a  gesture  of  the 
hands.  **I  have  been  with  El  Doctor  down  to 
the  village  to  find  a  place  for  him  to  lodge." 
Grant  imprisoned  her  arm  and  gently  persuaded 
her  steps  back  down  the  aisle  of  darkness 
toward  the  village.  For  a  minute  they  walked 
in  silence.  Each  knew  there  were  things  to  be 
spoken,  yet  each  was  reluctant  to  break  the  si- 
lent communion  their  nearness  wrought. 

**And  El  Doctor  gave  you  the  message  he 
came  to  bring?"  finally  from  Grant.  Her  head 
nodded  assent. 

'  "Not  bad  news,  I  hope,"  he  hazarded.  A 
|tightening  of  fingers  on  his  arm  as  she  an- 
swered, "The  best — and  the  worst."  Grant 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"And  may  I  share  with  you — ^the  worst?"  he 
managed  to  murmur.  Now  once  more  that  drag- 
ging weight  on  his  arm  as  when  he  guided 
Benicia  through  the  storm — ^mute  signal  of  sur- 
render from  one  spent  in  the  fight. 

"El  Doctor  says — oh,  my  friend,  you  must  not 
stay  here  in  the  Garden  longer.    The  rurales 
are  gathering  at  Babinioqui,  El  Doctor  tells  me 
[243] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

— ^with  Urgo.    That  means  but  one  thing:  Urgo 
is  bringing  them  here,  and  yon — " 

**But  you!"  Grant  interrupted  almost 
fiercely.  *  *  What  of  you  ?  Must  I  run  away  and 
leave  you  unprotected  from  that  man?"  The 
girl  drew  away  from  him  as  if  in  very  defiance 
of  some  mastering  impulse  which  would  push 
her  into  his  arms. 

**I — ^my  people  will  fight  for  me  if  need  be, 
Urgo  comes  for  you  this  time,  and  I  cannot  be 
sure  these  children" — a  vague  sweep  of  her 
hand  toward  the  winking  village  fires — *Hhat 
these  children  would  fight  for  you,  whom  they 
scarcely  know. ' '  There  was  that  brave  yet  piti- 
ful resolution  in  her  tone  when  she  spoke  of  the 
hazard  of  Urgo's  probable  sally  upon  her  own 
person  which  crashed  through  all  a  lover's  care- 
fully built  barriers  of  restraint.  Unmindful  of 
the  events  of  recent  hours,  of  the  girl's  fresh 
bereavement.  Grant  crushed  her  to  him  hotly. 

**0h,  'Nicia^ — 'Nicia,  can't  you  understand! 
I  must  go — ^yes,  to-morrow !  Not  because  Urgo 
is  coming  to  get  me  but  because  your  being  here 
alone  forces  me  away  from  you.  Yet  I  cannot 
think  of  leaving  you  to  fight  that  man  single- 
handed.  'Nicia — ^precious! — ^you  will  come — 
you  must  come  with  me  up  over  the  Line 
where — " 

[244] 


THE  COMING  OF  EL  DOCTOR 

''Oh,  please — ^please  stop!''  Hands  were 
feebly  pressing  him  away.  Glint  of  starlight 
revealed  tears  a-tremble  on  her  lashes. 
**  Grant — great  heart — ^I  understand.  I  cry  for 
you.  See!  My  eyes  tell  you  what  is  in  my 
heart.  But  I  cannot  give  myself  to  you  when 
that — ^that  terrible  thing  of  misfortune  and 
death  goes  with  me.  I — the  mark  I  bear  brought 
death  to  my  dear  father!'' 

He  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  appalled  at  this 
last  speech.  Before  he  could  hush  her  she  fal- 
tered on : 

*'But  El  Doctor  brought  me  also  good  news 
— ^wonderful  news !  It  is  that  I  can  lift  this  evil 
from  me  if — if" — she  seemed  to  falter  before  a 
possibility  scarce  credible — **if  the  finding  of 
the  gold  and  jewels  El  Rojo  stained  with  his 
sacrilege  and  their  restoration  to  a  sanctuary 
of  the  Church  will  be  acceptable  in  God's 
sight." 

The  hint  of  purpose  in  Benicia's  voice  re- 
vealed the  edge  of  the  truth.  *'Do  you  mean 
El  Doctor  knows  where  the  Lost  Mission  lies 
and  that  you  intend  to  find  it?"  Grant  pressed 
her.    The  girl  gave  answer : 

*'He  knows  where  the  gold  and  pearls  of  the 
Lost  Mission  are.  He  knows,  too,  the  story  of 
El  Rojo  and  how  I  bear  the  weight  of  his  guilt. 
[245] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Because  he  loved  my  father  he  says  he  loves  me 
too  much  to  have  me  go  on  and  on  under  an  evil 
spell.    Father's  death  opens  his  lips  and — '' 

'*You  are  going  with  El  Doctor  to  find  those 
things  1 ' '  breathlessly  from  Grant.  She  nodded. 
*  *  Then  I  will  go  with  you.  At  once !  To-mor- 
row!" 

Decision  came  on  the  wings  of  inspiration. 
Better  this  flight  into  the  desert  on  treasure 
quest,  with  its  promise  of  exorcism  of  all  the 
devils  that  plagued  the  girl — ^better  this  venture 
than  that  other  he  had  determined :  to  play  the 
strong  hand  willy-nilly. 


[246] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TREASURE  QUEST 

COLONEL  HAMILCAR  URGO  was  not 
addicted  to  introspection.  He  took  him- 
self as  he  found  himself  and  as  a  rule  was 
well  pleased  with  the  find.  Had  any  non- 
partisan voice  of  conscience  told  him  cruelty 
played  a  large  part  in  his  make-up  undoubt- 
edly the  little  Colonel  would  have  denied  the 
charge  with  hot  indignation.  Cruelty,  to  his 
way  of  thinking,  was  exclusively  a  feminine 
defect;  a  woman  was  guilty  of  cruelty,  for 
example,  when  she  spurned  the  honourable  ad- 
vances of  so  honourable  a  suitor  as  Hamilcar 
Urgo.  Benicia  O'Donoju  was  the  crudest 
creature  he  knew;  wherefore  like  a  fractious 
horse  she  must  be  broken. 

No,  Senor  Urgo  found  nothing  reprehensible 
in  his  orders  to  Ygnacio,  the  Papago,  that  Don 
Padraic  must  be  put  out  of  the  way.  The  same 
impulse  had  prompted  him  to  strip  the  bandage 
of  ignorance  from  Benicia 's  eyes  during  that 
interview  in  the  patio  without  the  least  com- 
[247] 


DUST  OF  ,THE  DESERT 

pniictioii.  These  headstrong  women!  There 
was  a  way  to  handle  them  just  as  there  was 
a  way  to  break  the  heart  of  a  high-spirited 
mount:  curb  bits  that  tear  and  spurs  that 
gouge.  Let  him  have  possession  of  a  spirit- 
broken  woman  for  a  little  while,  to  play  with 
and  then  discard;  possession  was  not  nearly 
so  diverting  as  the  game  of  spirit  breaking. 
At  that  Urgo  considered  himself  rather  a  mas- 
ter hand. 

He  had  not  hated  the  master  of  the  Casa 
O'Donoju.  Aside  from  the  necessity  of  clear- 
ing the  field  of  a  possible  objector  to  his  suit 
and  bringing  pain  to  the  haughty  desert  girl, 
Urge's  murder  impulse  was  prompted  by  no 
personal  bias.  But  with  all  the  deadly  spleen 
compacted  into  his  wispy  body  the  little  man 
hated  the  gringo  Grant  Hickman.  Hated  him 
because  the  American  was  in  the  lists  against 
him;  hated  him,  especially,  because  twice  Hick- 
man had  humiliated  him  before  the  eyes  of  Be- 
nicia:  once  in  the  Pullman  out  of  El  Paso  and 
a  second  time — searing  scar  in  memory — when 
the  man,  though  weakened  by  a  bullet  wound, 
had  hustled  him  out  the  door  of  the  desert 
manor. 

If  whole-heartedness  gives  any  palliation  to 
hatred  then  was  Hamilcar  Urgo's  passion 
[248] 


TREASURE  QUEST 

almost  to  be  forgiven  him.  For  very  dynamic 
force  no  impulse  in  his  twisted  career  matched 
it.  The  vision  of  this  gringo's  impudently 
smiling  face  went  to  bed  with  him  at  night 
and  abided  with  him  all  day — a  veritable  ache. 
Come  what  might,  he  would  destroy  Grant 
Hickman  and  in  a  manner  such  as  to  entail 
the  most  refined  tortures. 

So  this  was  his  single  purpose — ^possession 
of  the  girl  would  be  a  mere  by-product — when 
he  used  his  power  with  the  police  arm  of  the 
Sonora  state  government  to  assemble  ten  ruf- 
fians of  the  rurales  force  at  a  point  on  the  rail- 
road within  striking  distance  of  the  Road  of 
the  Dead  Men.  Desert  cars  were  at  his  dis- 
posal but  he  preferred  to  head  a  mounted 
force  because  his  plans  looked  to  an  excursion 
into  country  where  autos  could  not  go,  once 
Hickman  was  his  prisoner.  A  complaisant 
spirit  of  justice  at  Hermosillo  would  accept 
in  lieu  of  the  escaped  convict's  person  some 
token  symbolical  of  a  justice  already  wrought 
through  the  instrument  of  the  state's  worthy 
servant,  Urgo. 

The  day  after  the  sand  storm  Urgo  and  his. 

rurales  set  out  from  the  railroad  for  the  west; 

and  the  Garden  of  Solitude  at  the  end  of  a 

long  road.    They  were  superbly  mounted;  twa 

[249] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

pack  animals  trotted  behind  the  file  of  horse- 
men. Revolutions  had  been  squelched  by  a 
less  imposing  force. 

After  the  cleansing  storm  the  desert  was 
bland  and  tolerant.  Air  clear  as  quartz,  sun 
tempered  by  fresh  winds  from  the  west,  on 
every  club  and  spike  of  cactus  fresh  flowers 
born  overnight  to  replace  those  destroyed  by 
the  driving  sands.  One  of  the  rurales  unslung 
a  guitar  from  a  mule's  pack  and  strummed 
minor  chords  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  song 
in  which  the  rest  joined.  The  ballad  was  gentle 
as  a  butterfly's  wing,  telling  of  roses  over  a 
lady-love's  window. 

Urgo,  lulled  by  the  immensity  of  the  desert 
peace,  perhaps  even  by  the  tenderness  of  the 
song  his  murderers  sang,  pleasured  himself 
by  building  pictures  in  prospect.  He  saw 
himself  riding  alone  up  to  the  door  of  the 
Casa  O'Donoju — the  rurales  would  be  disposed 
beyond  sight  of  the  door  but  within  call;  saw 
the  courteous  bow  he  would  make  to  Senorita 
Benicia;  heard  himself  inquiring  in  polite 
phrase  concerning  her  health  and  that  of  her 
respected  father.  Ah,  Don  Padraic  dead — 
murdered!  Grace  of  God,  but  that  was  sad 
news.  But  the  American  gentleman  who  was 
a  guest  at  the  Casa  0  'Donoju ;  did  his  unf ortu- 
[250] 


TREASURE  QUEST 

nate  wound  still  keep  him  under  the  beneficence 
of  the  casa's  hospitality — ? 

Five  hours  of  the  second  day  out  on  the 
Road  of  the  Dead  Men  the  rurale  who  was 
riding  at  the  head  of  the  file  reined  in  with 
a  shout.  His  arm  stretched  to  point  a  tiny 
black  beetle  away  off  to  the  westward:  a 
beetle  skittering  down  the  long  slope  of  a 
divide  and  in  their  direction.  In  ten  minutes 
the  beetle  showed  again,  but  it  had  grown  to 
the  dimensions  of  an  auto.  It  was  upon  them 
almost  before  the  horsemen  had  spread  them- 
selves in  a  fan  across  the  road.  Quelele,  whom 
Urgo  instantly  recognized,  accepted  the  im- 
plied hint  to  halt;  in  the  seat  beside  him  was 
a  strange  white  man — a  gringo  by  his  looks. 
This  man  let  a  bland,  incurious  eye  range  over 
the  band  of  horsemen  until  it  settled  upon 
Urgo;  there  it  rested  with  a  dispassionate 
stare  somehow  affronting  to  the  Spaniard's 
dignity. 

Urgo  stiffly  bowed  and  waited  for  the  gringo 
to  speak.  Instead  of  returning  his  salutation 
the  white  man  searched  the  pockets  of  his  vest 
for  tobacco  bag  and  papers  and  bent  all  his 
attention  upon  rolling  a  cigarette. 

^^You  have  come  from  the  Casa  O'Donoju^ 
senorT'  Urgo  asked  in  English.  Bim  Bagley 
[251] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

gave  the  clipped  Spanish  **Si"  of  assent  and 
drew  his  rolled  cigarette  across  his  lips  with  a 
languid  air.  Urgo  in  a  growing  rage  wondered 
if  this  boorishness  were  the  stranger's  typi- 
cally American  manner  or  assumed  to  provoke 
hostility.  His  voice  was  silken  as  he  put  his 
next  question  in  Spanish: 

**The  Senorita  O'Donoju  and  Don  Padraic, 
her  father,  they  enjoy  the  best  health,  I  hope." 

**I  hope  so,  too,'*  was  Bim's  short  reply  as 
he  put  a  match  to  his  smoke.  Urgo's  brows 
knitted.  Here  was  no  boor  but  a  wise  gringo 
with  a  chuckle  behind  every  word. 

**I  am  doing  myself  the  honour  to  call  upon 
Don  Padraic  and  his  charming  daughter,'*  his 
temper  pushed  him  to  volunteer.  Bim  swept 
the  company  of  horsemen  with  a  lack-lustre 
eye  and  then  let  his  glance  return  to  the 
dapper  figure  of  the  Colonel. 

**Do  tell,"  he  drawled  in  broadest  Border 
dialect.  **See  you  brought  all  the  boys  with 
you.  Well,  so  long!"  He  nudged  the  Indian 
a  signal  to  go  ahead.  Urgo  would  have  liked 
to  detain  this  impudent  gringo  for  a  lesson  in 
manners  did  not  more  pressing  pleasure  lie 
ahead.  He  gave  an  imperceptible  nod  and  the 
horsemen  who  blocked  the  road  moved  aside. 
The  little  car  shot  back  a  pungent  cloud  of 
[252] 


TREASURE  QUEST 

smoke  for  a  parting  insult  as  it  took  the  road 
in  high.  Urgo  watched  it  rise  to  the  low  crest 
of  a  divide  and  disappear.  Insufferable 
gringo!  What  had  he  been  doing  at  Casa 
O'Donoju?  What  did  he  know  of  recent  events 
there! 

A  shrug  dismissed  Bagley,  and  the  file  of 
horsemen  resumed  leisurely  progress  along  the 
desert  road.  A  night's  dry  camp,  and  early 
morning  would  see  them  in  the  oasis  green  at 
journey's  end. 

Colonel  Urgo  miscalculated  when  he  dis- 
missed Bim  Bagley  with  a  shrug.  Did  the 
little  Spaniard  but  know  it,  this  meeting  in 
the  wastes  was  the  objective  point  in  the 
gringo's  strategy.  Even  under  certain  heavy 
handicaps  ten  gallons  of  gasoline  in  the  desert 
can  achieve  more  than  ten  horses  with  rurales 
on  their  backs.  It  all  depends  upon  the  hand 
that  nurses  precious  jets  of  this  gasoline  across 
the  path  of  the  spark.  And  Quelele's  was  a 
master  hand.  Wherefore  the  second  phase  in 
Bim's  strategy  was  entered  upon. 

Bim  and  the  Indian  had  made  perhaps  five 
miles  along  the  eastward-bearing  road  beyond 
the  point  of  the  meeting  with  Urgo's  ruffians 
when  the  Papago  turned  off  the  single  wheel 
track  and  into  the  sparse  scrub.  A  low  range 
[253] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

separated  them  from  the  rurales ;  the  crumbling 
of  that  range  into  desert  flatness  lay  a  good 
ten  miles  to  southward.  Once  around  that, 
the  little  car  could  be  tooled  behind  a  screen 
of  hillocks  back  onto  the  Road  of  the  Dead 
Men  and  ahead  of  the  rurales,  but  only  by 
exercise  of  the  most  delicate  driving  judgment. 
*  *  Smack  through  the  country — without  roads  ? ' ' 
whiffles  the  incredulous  driver  of  limousines 
along  sedate  highways  in  Pennsylvania  and 
New  York.  Exactly  that.  It  is  done  in  Arizona 
and  Sonora — thirty  or  fifty  miles  of  unfenced 
desert ;  compass  to  pick  up  direction  and  shovel 
to  dig  out  of  arroyos.  Johnny  Cameron,  of  Ajo, 
even  herds  wild  horses  on  a  motorcycle. 

Quelele  stopped  to  let  air  out  of  his  tires 
that  they  might  better  grip  the  sand  and  pad 
through  soft  places.  Then  began  a  jackrabbit 
skittering  and  twisting  'cross  country,  with 
every  hundred  yards  offering  the  hazard  of  a 
broken  axle  and  the  little  desert  skimmer 
standing  on  its  nose  at  the  brink  of  a  dry 
wash  while  its  passengers  flattened  the  descent 
by  hasty  shovel  work.  Like  a  rowboat  in  mid- 
Atlantic  the  puny  contraption  of  tin  and  steel 
took  the  long  waves,  snarling  and  grumbling 
over  sand-traps,  boggling  through  thickets  of 
cholla  which  rigged  its  tires  with  festoons  of 
[254] 


TREASURE  QUEST 

prickly  stubs.  Quelele's  hands  possessed 
magic.  They  knew  just  when  to  give  a  twist 
to  the  wheel,  when  to  shoot  the  spark  ahead. 
Every  hummock  and  pitfall  was  read  by  them 
surely  and  swiftly. 

The  little  car  rounded  the  end  of  the  moun- 
tain range  and  shot  back  on  a  tangent  for 
the  road  where  Urgo  and  his  rurales  were 
travelling.  With  a  grunt  Quelele  suddenly  let 
the  car  trundle  to  a  halt;  he  clambered  out 
and  knelt  by  the  radiator.  Drip-drip  of  pre- 
cious water  from  some  stab  of  brush  through 
the  honeycomb  of  cells  there.  Bim  sacrificed 
his  tobacco  in  the  emergency.  The  flaky  mass 
was  poured  into  the  radiator  with  fresh  water 
from  a  canteen;  the  stuff  found  the  leak  and, 
swelling,  stopped  it. 

Then  on  and  on,  around  the  flanks  of  the 
little  hills  and  across  wide  flats  where  the 
brush  was  scattered.  Always  Quelele  was  sure 
to  keep  a  height  of  land  between  the  car  and 
the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men  until  finally  he 
brought  his  gas  mustang  to  a  stop  on  the  crest 
of  a  lava  ridge  and  pointed  back.  Against  the 
eastern  horizon  showed  a  crawling  inch-worm 
in  the  desert's  immensity — Urgo  and  the 
rurales.  Below  the  lava  crest  and  near  at 
hand  was  the  objective  of  their  detour,  the 
[255] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

road  that  led  to  the  Casa  O'Donoju  and  those 
who  must  be  warned. 

It  was  after  sunset  when  the  little  car  hic- 
coughed up  under  the  avenue  of  palms.  An 
hour  later  in  the  first  dark  of  night  a  file  of 
horsemen  quit  the  perfumed  precincts  of 
alfalfa  fields  behind  the  Casa  O'Donoju.  At 
the  head,  driving  a  pack-mule,  was  El  Doctor 
Coyote  Belly,  big  Quelele  riding  beside  him. 
Behind  were  Benicia  and  Grant.  Bim  Bagley 
was  file  closer.  In  scabbards  at  the  saddle  of 
each  hung  carbines. 

El  Doctor,  the  guide,  set  the  course  away 
from  the  Road  of  the  Dead  Men  which,  pass- 
ing through  the  Garden  of  Solitude,  buries  it- 
self in  the  Yuma  Desert.  His  direction  was 
south  and  west  toward  the  Gulf  and  the  laby- 
rinth of  volcano  craters  on  its  hither  shore 
called  Pinacate. 


[256] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AL.TAE  TAKES  ITS   TOULi 

DAWN  marched  over  the  mountains  like  a 
phalanx  of  Alexander:  spear  points  of 
light  on  long  hafts,  which  drove  at  the  zenith  in 
solid  bundles.  Then  the  mercenaries  of  the 
sun  trooped  across  the  vacant  desert  floor  wave 
on  wave  and  strength  following  strength.  All 
the  dead  world  of  Altar  stirred  and  set  itself 
for  the  ordeal  of  a  new  day. 

The  figure  of  a  man  that  had  been  Doc 
Stooder,  cynical  tinker  of  life's  rusts  and  cor- 
rodings,  stirred  under  the  trampling  of  the 
light — stirred  and  stretched  its  members  in 
dull  protest  of  unconsciousness.  Finally  when 
the  arrows  of  the  new  day  drove  at  his  eyelids 
the  man  opened  them  and  lay  staring  up  into 
the  sky's  opalescence.  For  a  long  minute  they 
probed  the  marbled  colour  depths  uncompre- 
hendingly,  then  turned  to  find  the  rim  of  the 
iron  mountains  to  the  east.  Comprehension 
came  at  last ;  with  it  a  distorted  memory  image 
of  hours  of  madness  and  wandering,  agony  of 
[257] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

thirst,  despair  pressing  upon  footsteps  that 
carried  nowhere.  Sleep  which  had  put  a 
period  to  all  this  nightmare  had  also  merci- 
fully rallied  the  man's  nervous  forces  to  a  new 
effort  of  self-saving.  Men  die  hard  because 
the  instinct  locked  up  in  their  sub-conscious 
minds  always  prevails  over  surrender  of  the 
conscious  will. 

The  Doc  lifted  an  arm  to  shield  his  eyes  and 
felt  something  sinuous  slide  off  his  body.  An 
instant  his  heart  was  chilled,  for  the  feeling 
was  of  a  desert  serpent  trailing  over  his  form. 
He  dared  lift  his  head  ever  so  little  and  let 
his  eyes  rove  down  his  body.  A  queer  some- 
thing, not  snake,  lay  in  a  curve  by  his  side;  a 
palHd,  root-like  thing  the  size  of  a  man's  wrist 
at  one  end  and  tapering  to  a  stringy  point. 
He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  drew  the 
vegetable  serpent  to  him.  Just  as  he  did  so 
his  eyes  discovered  the  prints  of  a  man's  feet 
in  the  sand  by  where  he  lay. 

** Glory  be!"  came  the  croak  from  stiffened 
lips,  and  the  Doc  concentrated  all  his  scattered 
wits  on  an  examination  of  the  prodigy.  Yes, 
footprints.  They  came  from  behind  him; 
they  were  printed  in  a  semi-circle  about  him 
to  mark  where  one  had  stood  hesitantly  look- 
ing down  at  him  while  he  slept;  they  marched 
[258] 


ALTAR  TAKES  ITS  TOLL 

off  in  line  with  their  approach  straight  toward 
the  tawny  mountains  ringing  the  northern 
horizon. 

Guadalupe's  footprints — the  trail  he  had 
followed  and  lost  the  day  before!  So  Stooder 
thought. 

A  great  sense  of  security  pushed  through 
the  daze  in  his  brain.  Here,  at  last,  lay  the 
way  to  salvation.  That  thought  having  been 
duly  relished,  he  turned  his  attention  once 
more  to  the  mysterious  vegetable  whip  by  his 
side.  He  never  had  seen  its  like.  How  it 
came  to  be  there  he  had  no  notion.  The  thing 
was  unlike  any  desert  growth  in  his  expe- 
rienced observation,  wherefore  it  seemed  to  rep- 
resent some  prodigy  of  the  desert  god  dropped 
by  him  for  a  purpose. 

He  gripped  the  heavier  end  of  the  root  be- 
tween his  hands  and  gave  it  a  twist.  The 
thing  broke  like  an  over-ripe  radish  and  a  thin 
spurt  of  water  shot  from  the  severed  ends. 
Greedily  he  thrust  one  stump  into  his  mouth 
and  clamped  his  jaws  upon  it.  Gracious  fluid, 
mildly  acrid,  drenched  the  parchment-like  mem- 
branes of  his  throat.  The  Doc  sighed  once, 
then  wolfed  the  whole  stub  of  the  root  he  had 
broken  off.  As  the  pulp  was  swallowed  he 
felt  immediate  access  of  strength  and  sanity. 
[259] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

From  somewhere  deep  in  the  corroded  heart 
of  him  welled  an  emotion  whose  like  he  had 
not  known  during  all  the  years  of  his  warped 
and  weathered  manhood.  As  if  a  child 
prompted  him  the  gaunt,  half-naked  creature 
on  the  sands  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  glowing 
blue. 

*^ Thanks,  dear  God!'' 

So  the  sardonic  genius  of  the  waste  places 
permitted  the  cloak  of  divinity  to  fall  upon 
Ygnacio,  fugitive  and  murderer,  for  that  a  sur- 
prising charity  had  prompted  him  to  pause  in 
the  night  by  a  raving  man,  divide  with  him  his 
slender  store  of  insurance  against  death,  then 
pass  on. 

The  root-of-the-sands  which  Stooder  half 
devoured  quickly  restored  him  to  something 
like  the  normal.  Gone  were  the  deliriums 
that  had  dogged  him  those  hours  of  horror. 
He  heard  no  longer  the  ghost  bells  of  the  Lost 
Mission  summoning  him  to  treasure  buried  in 
the  bleak  mountains  yonder.  Rational  thought 
was  his  after  all  the  wanderings  in  Bedlam. 
He  mapped  his  strategy  against  the  ever- 
present  menace  of  the  desert. 

Here  were  Guadalupe's  tracks — the  Papago 
hound;  wait  till  he  could  get  hands  on  the 
devil!  Of  course  they  would  lead  to  the  vil- 
[260J 


ALTAR  TAKES  ITS  TOLL 

lage  of  the  Sand  People  on  the  edge  of  El  In- 
fiernillo.  Well  and  good;  but  that  might  still 
be  a  long  way  ahead.  Could  he  make  it  just  on 
what  was  left  of  this  mysterious  root!  About 
one  chance  in  ten;  and  the  old  Doc  wasn't 
taking  any  more  chances.    What  then? 

Why,  follow  the  tracks  back  to  the  stalled 
auto.  Water  might  be  there.  Surely  were 
cans  of  tomatoes — about  a  dozen  of  'em.  A 
dozen  tomato  cans  would  carry  him  a  hundred 
miles  on  foot;  he  knew  because  he'd  drunk  un- 
cooked canned  tomatoes  many  a  time — food  and 
drink  in  small  compass.  All  right;  follow  the 
tracks  back  to  the  auto,  rest  up  a  bit  and  then 
get  a  fresh  start  back  over  those  same  tracks 
and  straight  into  the  Sand  People's  rancheria. 

Stooder  wrapped  the  precious  remains  of  his 
giant  radish  in  a  strip  of  his  shirt  and  started 
back  over  the  line  of  blue  shadow  cups  in  the 
sand.  As  he  laboured  through  the  heavy  going 
he  reviewed  all  he  could  remember  of  yester- 
day's terrors,  and  a  great  fear  began  to  build 
in  the  back  of  his  mind.  Fear  of  the  leagues 
upon  leagues  of  blank  space  about  him — land 
unchanged  by  time  since  the  waters  of  a  great 
sea  were  withdrawn  into  a  shallow  cup  now 
called  the  Gulf.  Fear  of  latent  forces  which 
lurked  in  the  naked  mountains  all  about,  in 
[261] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

the  ghostly  mirage  which  stretched  vain  beau- 
ties before  his  eyes.  Over-mastering  all  was 
a  corroding  fear  of  his  own  body. 

The  Doc's  trained  intelligence  was  function- 
ing with  deadly  precision.  It  separated  his 
mind  from  the  rest  of  his  being,  counting  the 
mind  as  a  rider  and  the  body  the  beast  it  rode. 
The  rider  willed  that  the  beast  carry  it  to  a 
certain  destination;  did  that  beast  stumble  and 
fall  the  rider  could  cry  out  never  so  furiously 
but  it  would  be  lost.  And  that  burden-bearer 
of  the  mind  was  capable  of  just  so  much.  Its 
tissues  and  sinews  were  kept  functioning  by 
water  and  food.  So  much  water  and  so  much 
food  gave  so  many  foot-pounds  of  energy;  no 
more.    Inexorable  mathematics! 

When  sweat  began  to  trickle  down  into  his 
eyes  Stooder  could  not  repress  a  shudder. 
Lost!  Water  lost  from  his  body.  The  desert 
greasewood  is  wise  enough  to  coat  all  its 
leaves  and  little  stems  with  creosote  to  trick 
evaporation;  the  big  sahuaro  shows  only  the 
edges  of  its  accordion  flutings  to  the  sun  and 
greases  them  with  paraffin;  man  yields  water 
like  a  stranded  jellyfish. 

Better  take  another  chew  on  that  water-root 
dingus  to  make  up  for  sweat  lost.    Better  give 
the  old  pulse  a  feel  to  see  how  it's  runnin'. 
[262] 


ALTAR  TAKES  ITS  TOLL 

The  sun  swam  dizzily  at  meridian  so  that 
the  footprints  the  Doc  followed  were  hard  to 
see — mere  shallow  spoon  marks.  On  and  on 
towards  the  south! 

What  was  that  thing  moving  over  yonder  in 
that  bunch  of  saltbush?  Yes,  sir,  moving! — A 
coyote,  by  th'  eternal! — Naw,  coyotes  weren't 
white  like  this  animal;  coyotes  were  a  mangy 
yellow. — But,  by  criminy!  this  thing  had  the 
looks  of  a  coyote — sharp  nose  and  baggy  tail 
half  way  'tween  its  hind  legs,  skulkin'  like. — 
An  albino  coyote!  Lookit!  Eyes  pinky  like 
a  white  rabbit. — Whoever  heard  of  an  albino 
coyote  ? 

No  phantom  of  the  imagination  that  slinking, 
dirty-white  creature  which  matched  its  pace 
to  the  Doc's  on  parallel  course  through  the  low 
lying  scrub.  The  desert  Ishmael  trotted  along 
with  a  foolish  air  of  being  strictly  about  its 
own  business,  as  if  no  other  creature  were  in 
sight.  When  Stooder  stopped  to  bawl  curses 
at  it  the  albino  thing  halted  and  made  a  great 
pretence  of  snouting  at  a  flea  bite,  utterly 
oblivious  to  his  presence.  A  fragment  of  dead 
bush-stock  was  hurled  at  it;  the  coyote  lifted 
a  corner  of  his  lip  in  a  deprecatory  smile  but 
did  not  abate  his  casual  trot. 

**Huh,  you  mangy  bag  o'  bones!  Think 
[263] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

you're  goin'  have  a  feed  off'n  me,  do  youT 
Well,  I'm  tellin'  you,  you  got  a  mighty  long 
tromp  ahead!" 

On  through  the  desert  slogged  the  man  and 
on  trotted  the  freaky  animal  whose  colour  made 
him  outcast  even  from  his  own  kind.  These 
twain  alone  under  the  hot  sky:  two  mites  of 
life  in  a  land  of  death,  each  blindly  following 
the  call  of  every  life  cell  in  him  to  live — live ! 

What  had  been  a  piled-up  cloud  of  blue  and 
faint  rose  to  the  south  when  the  Doc  started 
his  hike  had  unfolded  hour  by  hour  into  definite 
form.  little  by  little  pinnacles  sharp  as  ice 
splinters  lifted  from  a  mountain  mass  and 
detached  mountains  with  their  tops  blown  off 
stood  against  the  horizon  like  truncated  col- 
umns of  an  acropolis.  Here  were  the  mazes 
of  the  Pinacate,  raw  shards  of  volcanoes  and 
wilderness  of  lava  flows  down  by  the  Gulf 
sandhills;  country  so  fire-scarred  and  forbid- 
ding that  even  the  Indian  nomads  give  it  wide 
berth.  Only  the  big-horn  sheep  possess  it, 
living  no  man  knows  how. 

The  undeviating  trend  of  the  trail  south- 
ward towards  this  ragged  mass  had  perplexed 
Stooder  when  first  he  became  conscious  of  it. 
The  auto  should  be  lying  somewhere  off  to 
eastward  if  he  didn't  miss  his  guess;  those 
[264] 


ALTAE  TAKES  ITS  TOLL 

mountains  ahead  were  strange  to  him.  But 
he  could  not  know  how  far  nor  where  he  had 
wandered  the  day  before;  even  though  he 
thought  long  since  he  should  have  come  upon 
a  second  line  of  footprints — his  own — running 
along  with  those  of  the  Papago,  yet  there  was 
no  denying  he  was  following  the  right  trail 
back  to  the  auto  and  the  cached  tomatoes. 
There  sure  could  not  be  two  lines  of  footprints 
here  in  this  least-travelled  part  of  Altar. 

So  ran  the  mind  of  him  whom  the  mocking 
Gog  and  Magog  of  the  desert's  diarchy  had 
put  on  a  false  trail  to  desolation.  Deeper  and 
deeper  into  a  waterless  scrap-heap  of  forgotten 
ages  his  steps  took  him.  And  the  albino  coyote 
was  his  aloof  companion. 


[265] 


CHAPTEE  XXin 

INTO  THE  FURNACE 

TV/TEANWHILE  from  another  direction  ad- 
-*-"■■  venturers  were  moving  througli  the  night 
upon  the  slag  mountains  of  Pinacate.  Empty 
space  of  Altar's  ultimate  sweep  was  become  al- 
most populous.  A  strange  company  this,  which 
passed  ghostily  under  the  great  lights  of  the 
near  stars  with  only  the  clink  of  bridle  metal 
and  pack  mule's  canteens  to  give  tempo  to 
the  march;  Benicia  O'Donoju,  the  desert  girl, 
moved  to  this  risky  hazard  by  compulsion  of 
an  incubus  of  fate  visited  upon  her  through 
inheritance  down  the  generations  of  her 
people;  Grant  Hickman,  man  of  cities  and 
crowds,  whom  destiny  had  whirled  out  into  a 
country  of  the  world's  dawn;  Bagley  the  Ari- 
zonan,  taker  of  chances,  seeker  after  rainbow 
ends;  and  the  two  Papagoes,  Quelele  and  El 
Doctor  Coyote  Belly,  on  whom  was  spread  thin 
the  veneer  of  so-called  civilization. 
It  had  been  Benicia 's  mastering  purpose 
[266] 


INTO  THE  FURNACE 

that  had  moved  the  cavalcade  away  from  the 
Casa  O'Donoju  and  out  onto  the  desert  imme- 
diately upon  the  return  of  Bim  and  Quelele 
reporting  the  leisurely  approach  of  Colonel 
Urgo  and  his  rurales.  This  was  not  flight,  she 
told  Bim;  they  would  go  in  search  of  the 
treasure  of  the  Lost  Mission  whose  hiding 
place  the  old  medicine  man  was  willing  to  re- 
veal, and  if  Urgo  followed — ^well,  eventualities 
could  be  met  as  they  arose.  In  this  resolve 
Grant  had  strongly  seconded  her.  The  girl's 
slavery  under  the  obsession  of  the  bane  of  El 
Rojo,  especially  following  the  slaying  of  her 
father,  had  laid  an  impenetrable  barrier  be- 
tween her  and  him;  he  had  seized  upon  this 
possibility  promising  her  emancipation  from 
this  horror.  This  chance  failing,  he  had  but 
the  last  desperate  recourse. 

The  first  hour  of  their  pilgrimage  away 
from  the  desert  oasis  Grant  rode  by  Benicia's 
side.  He  essayed  to  distract  her  thoughts 
from  the  tragedy  that  lay  behind  by  question- 
ing her  on  the  revelations  El  Doctor  had  made : 
how  had  the  old  Indian  come  by  knowledge  of 
the  buried  gold  and  pearls;  what  impulse  had 
led  him  to  promise  their  restoration?  But  the 
girl  was  pot  to  be  drawn.  She  answered  his 
queries  by  evasions  or  meaningless  monosyl- 
[267] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

lables.  It  was  as  if  Grant  were  a  stranger,  im- 
pudently prying. 

At  first  the  man  was  stung  by  this  treat- 
ment. His  self-pride  rebelled  against  so  arbi- 
trary a  closing  of  the  door  of  confidence 
against  him.  Why  should  he  be  treated  thus 
cavalierly  when  the  girl  had  surely  read  the 
great  love  he  bore  her  and  his  single  desire 
to  place  himself  between  her  and  the  menace 
of  one  who  had  prompted  murder?  But  these 
hurts  did  not  continue  long.  Eiding  by  Beni- 
cia's  side  in  the  starshine,  the  man  began  to 
feel  the  emanations  of  a  mastering  will  which 
poured  from  her  as  the  pungent  prickles  of 
ozone  surround  a  high-power  dynamo.  Her 
consciousness  was  frozen  into  a  mould  of  pur- 
pose, locked  against  any  distractions.  Benicia 
was  alive  only  to  the  single  resolve  to  free  her- 
self from  the  curse  of  the  Eed  One.  Man  nor 
spirit  could  invade  that  preoccupation. 

There  under  the  steady-burning  desert  lamps 
the  man  of  the  cities  began  to  feel  again  that 
spell  of  the  infinite  which  had  chained  him  the 
night  of  Don  Padraic's  passing.  Here  was  he, 
lately  denizen  of  a  hive  of  stone  and  steel,  tiny 
integer  in  that  man-made  machine  called  a 
metropolis,  moving  through  the  darkness  over 
a  land  unsullied  by  hand  of  man  since  the  floods 
[268] 


INTO  THE  FURNACE 

of  melting  glaciers  drove  a  shadowy  race  of 
stone-axe  people  back  to  the  highlands.  The 
loves  and  hates,  the  battles  and  deaths  of  these 
stone-axe  folk  occurred  but  yesterday  in  the 
time-sheet  of  the  waste  places.  The  to-morrow 
of  ten  thousand  years  would  find  the  desert  still 
untouched,  supine  under  the  stars.  What  then 
of  hidden  baubles  of  gold;  what  then  of  the 
love  of  a  Grant  Hickman  for  a  Benicia 
O'Donoju?  A  fossil  snail  shell  by  the  shore 
of  the  gulf  left  a  more  enduring  record. 

**The  thing  that's  sorta  got  me  fussed  is 
how  I'm  goin'  explain  all  this  to  the  old  Doc." 
Bim's  voice  broke  through  Grant's  contempla- 
tion of  shadowy  frontiers;  he  noted  with  a 
start  that  his  horse  had  dropped  behind  Be- 
nicia's  and  was  ambling  head-and-head  with 
his  friend's.    Bim  drawled  on: 

^*It  sure  will  look  like  a  double-cross  to 
Stooder — ^my  sailin'  off  down  into  Sonora  on 
the  search  for  you  an'  then  hooking  up  with 
an  outfit  to  go  get  all  the  plunder  the  old  Doc 
thinks  he's  as  good  as  got  his  hands  on.  Me, 
I  guess  I'm  queered  all  right,"  was  the  man's 
whimsical  finish  to  his  lament.  Grant,  who 
had  been  too  preoccupied  with  the  sweep  of 
affairs  to  give  any  thought  to  his  pal's  per- 
plexities, could  not  now  offer  much  consolation. 
[269] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

A  point  of  honour  involving  the  grotesque 
creature  who  had  elected  to  receive  him  as  a 
book  agent  did  not  greatly  move  Grant. 

**A'  course/'  Bim  continued  his  monologue, 
*Hhe  way  things  lie  with  the  girl,  her  bein' 
hipped  on  gettin'  back  this  swag  somebody  in 
her  family  lifted  from  the  mission,  I'm  more'n 
willing  to  see  her  get  it.  But  the  old  Doc 
hasn't  got  a  large  store  of  what  you  might 
call  sentiment,  an'  I  sure  got  my  work  cut  out 
for  me  when  I  try  to  show  him  the  light." 

**Too  bad  I  got  you  into  a  tangle,  old  man," 
Grant  heartily  commiserated;  then  with  a 
hopeless  little  laugh,  **My  own  affairs  aren't 
set  on  any  straight  and  beautiful  road  to  happi- 
ness either." 

Bim  chuckled  deep  in  his  throat.  '^Me,  I 
was  all  for  your  first  idea  to  rope  the  senorita 
right  outa  the  home  corral  an'  put  your  brand 
on  her,  fighting.  But  like 's  not  we  '11  get  mucho 
plenty  excitement  along  this  trail  before  we're 
through."  He  gave  a  short  laugh.  **Say, 
Cap'n  Hickman,  I  brought  you  out  from  the 
East  on  a  whale  of  a  proposition.  You're  sure 
getting  it.  A  girl  who  assays  higher 'n  any 
pearls  an'  old  gold  junk  you  could  find  in  a 
church  cellar — the  feel  and  savvy  of  a  man's 
country — a  larrupin'  fight  with  old  Urgo  and 
[270] 


INTO  THE  FUENACE 

his  rurales  bunch.  That  last  you  can  back  right 
down  to  your  last  white  chip." 

**But  how  can  Urgo  follow  us  from  the 
O'Donoju  house  r*  incredulously  from  Grant. 
**Not  one  of  the  servants  or  other  Indians 
there  knows  what  our  destination  is — ^we  don^t 
ourselves  except  in  a  general  way." 

The  man  of  the  big  country  chuckled  at 
metropolitan  innocence.  ** Horses  don't  leave 
tracks  on  your  Fifth  Avenoo  because  they's  no 
horses  left  there  for  one  thing,  I  reckon.  But 
in  this  country  they  do.  Five  horses  make  a 
trail  a  blind  man  could  follow.  I  or  anybody 
else  could  track  this  outfit  of  ours  in  the  dark. 
I  look  to  see  our  lil  friend  Urgo  drop  in  on 
us  some  time  to-morrow.  He'll  travel  fast 
with  fresh  horses  his  men  round  up  at  the 
O'Donoju  corrals." 

They  rode  some  time  in  silence,  Grant  turn- 
ing over  in  his  mind  this  unthought-of  possi- 
bility. Tenderfoot  that  he  was — so  he  accused 
himself — he  had  noted  the  carbines  slung  in 
scabbards  at  each  saddlehorn;  noted  with  an 
unreading  eye.  So  Benicia  and  all  the  others 
had  provided  against  a  contingency  he  had  not 
even  suspected. 

**Only  thing  I'm  figgerin'  in  this  proposi- 
tion," he  heard  Bim  saying,  *4s,  will  the  Papa- 
[271] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

goes  stick  under  fire?  Papagoes  are  not 
strong  for  the  knock-do wn-an '-drag-out  stuff. 
An',  besides,  you're  not  a  whole  man  yet." 

*^ Whole  enough  to  keep  my  end  up,"  Grant 
said  shortly,  knowing  not  why  he  resented  any 
imputation  of  disability  against  him. 

*^0h,  sure — sure!"  the  other  hurriedly 
amended,  and  the  subject  died. 

Dawn  spread  a  ghostly  panorama  before 
them.  In  the  greeny- white  light  that  heralds 
the  sun's  first  ruddiness  the  whole  western 
horizon  bulked  with  black  masses  of  slag 
heaped  in  fantastic  shapes.  High  above  the 
lesser  masses  towered  the  two  peaks  of  Pina- 
cate,  their  summits  yawning  in  wide  craters. 
The  horses'  hoofs  struck  sparks  from  lava 
aprons ;  the  beasts  had  to  pick  their  way  care- 
fully over  traps  and  crevices.  Ever  and  again 
grey  arms  of  cactus  struck  out  to  rake  the 
riders'  legs  with  claws  of  thorns. 

Waxing  light  filled  in  details  of  a  phantom 
land,  terrific  in  stark  brutalities  of  scarp  and 
battlement — a  world  just  set  aside  from  the 
baking-oven  of  the  Potter  and  unadorned  by 
a  single  brush  stroke.  The  little  company  of 
horsemen  threaded  single  file  up  a  narrow 
gorge  between  the  main  peaks  of  the  range. 
Walls  of  porphyry  and  slag  the  colour  of  fur- 
[272] 


INTO  THE  FUENACB 

nace  clinkers  leaped  to  heights  on  either  side 
which  dwarfed  the  riders  to  the  stature  of 
weevils.  The  trail  they  followed  was  the  path 
cut  by  the  rushing  waters  of  summer  cloud- 
bursts, which  pack  into  the  downpour  of 
minutes'  duration  all  the  water  denied  during 
months  of  drought;  great  blocks  of  fused  glass 
and  conglomerate  wrenched  from  the  canyon's 
eaves  by  the  fingers  of  these  storms  choked 
the  way.  Where  capfuls  of  soil  had  been 
caught  and  held  in  some  pocket  the  gaunt 
sticks  of  the  ocatilla  splayed  out  against  raw 
rock  like  cat's  whiskers.  Low-lying  oholla, 
that  spined  and  vicious  vegetable  tarantula 
of  the  desert,  seemed  to  grow  from  the  very 
rock;  all  its  nodules  were  frosty  with  close-set 
thorns.  Over  all  dropped  the  veil  of  mystical 
morning  radiance. 

The  horses  groaned  as  they  had  to  choose, 
minute  by  minute,  between  barking  their  hocks 
on  the  knife-like  corners  of  obsidian  or  taking 
the  barbs  of  the  cholla.  The  higher  the  ascent 
the  savager  grew  the  way.  Grant,  awed  by 
this  penetration  into  the  very  laboratory  of 
earth,  almost  leaped  from  his  saddle  when  a 
sharp  clatter  of  small  pebbles  to  his  right  broke 
the  silence.  His  eyes  jumped  up  the  canyon 
wall  to  follow  three  dots  of  bounding  dun- white 
[273] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

against  its  sheer  side — ^bighorn  sheep  skipping 
surely  along  no  visible  foothold. 

When  the  sun  was  well  in  the  sky — though 
naught  but  its  reflected  radiance  penetrated 
the  gorge — ^El  Doctor,  in  the  lead,  signalled  a 
halt.  The  place  was  a  constricted  apron  or 
shelf  in  the  cleft  between  rock  walls  whereon 
sparse  galetta  grass  was  growing.  Reason  for 
this  tiny  oasis  of  vegetation  lay  just  beyond 
in  the  fact  of  a  water-worn  cistern  in  the  lava 
— such  a  natural  reservoir  as  the  desert  folk 
called  a  **tank,"  a  godsend  when  it  still  con- 
tains the  wash  from  a  last  cloudburst.  This 
one  was  bone-dry. 

The  party  breakfasted  meagrely,  wood  for 
their  coffee  fire  being  grubbed  by  the  Indians 
painfully  and  after  long  search.  There  was 
little  speech  between  them  for  they  were  tired ; 
the  night's  ride  had  been  wearing.  Moreover, 
even  the  Indians  appeared  to  feel  a  malign 
presence  bearing  down  upon  them  and  forbid- 
ding desecration  of  the  silence.  For  them,  in 
especial  for  Coyote  Belly,  there  was  a  very 
real  and  fear-compelling  presence  abroad. 
These  mountains  of  Tjuktoak  housed  litoi. 
Elder  Brother  himself;  the  god  of  all  things 
who,  with  a  coyote  and  a  black  beetle,  drifted 
four  times  round  the  earth  in  the  time  of  the 
[274] 


INTO  THE  FURNACE 

Flood  and  came  to  anchorage  in  tMs  place. 
El  Doctor  Coyote  Belly,  driven  by  a  great  love 
to  commit  sacrilege,  might  well  have  heard  the 
voice  of  litoi  in  the  wind  and  felt  his  heart 
turn  to  water. 

In  truth,  the  aged  Papago  was  having  a 
battle  with  himself.  Before  he  had  gulped  his 
coffee  and  tortillas  the  medicine  man's  eyes 
were  roaming  fearsomely  and  he  whimpered 
snatches  of  sacerdotal  songs  as  he  rummaged 
in  the  pack  for  a  wicker  basket.  From  it  he 
took  a  wand  stained  red  and  with  an  eagle's 
feather  bound  to  one  end,  an  arrow  very  hand- 
somely feathered  from  the  same  bird,  a  string 
of  glass  beads  and  a  bundle  of  cigarettes — 
presents  for  Elder  Brother,  who  must  be  be- 
guiled before  being  robbed. 

The  old  man's  hands  wavered  to  return  the 
presents  to  the  basket  when  Benicia  hurried 
to  him,  sat  down  by  his  side  and  earnestly 
pleaded  with  him  in  his  own  tongue.  Finally 
his  resolution  seemed  to  be  brought  to  the 
sticking  point.  He  started  up  the  gorge  alone 
and  with  his  basket  of  trifles. 

**  Coyote  Belly  says  he  must  go  and  sing  to 

the  god  litoi  before  we  are  permitted  to  visit 

his  house,"  Benicia  gravely  explained  to  her 

white  companions.    *^The  poor  man  is  desper- 

[275] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEKT 

ately  scared  because  we  have  come  to  rob  Elder 
Brother." 

Seeing  the  look  of  puzzlement  on  the  men's 
faces  she  continued  with  that  same  grave 
respect  as  if  speaking  of  a  real  presence. 
**This  old  man  through  the  love  he  bore  my 
father  has  consented  to  betray  a  secret  the 
medicine  men  of  his  people  have  handed  down 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years.  The  treasure 
of  the  Lost  Mission,  he  tells  me,  was  dug  up 
by  Papago  medicine  men  not  long  after  the 
Mission  was  destroyed  by  the  Apaches  and 
brought  to  these  mountains — to  the  cave  of 
Elder  Brother—'' 

**And  it's  all  here  now?"  Bim  put  in  ex- 
citedly.   The  girl  nodded. 

''It  has  been  as  well  hidden  from  those  who 
sought  it  as  if  it  were  under  the  buried  ruins 
of  the  mission,"  she  said;  then  simply:  ''While 
El  Doctor  is  gone  it  is  best  that  we  get  some 
sleep." 

Benicia  stretched  herself  under  the  shade  of 
a  rock  with  a  saddle  blanket  for  pillow  and 
slept.  But  neither  of  the  white  men  could  fol- 
low her  precept ;  both  were  too  sensible  of  the 
prickling  of  some  unnameable  essence  of  the 
strange  and  the  unworldly — ^perhaps  that  very 
savagery  of  atmosphere  which  had  prompted 
[276] 


INTO  THE  FURNACE 

primitive  Indians  to  designate  Pinacate  as  the 
residence  of  their  god.  They  were  alone;  big 
Quelele  had  quietly  slipped  away  shortly  after 
El  Doctor  without  saying  where  he  was  going. 

The  men  sat  smoking  while  their  eyes  roved 
the  prospect  of  burnt  cliff  and  ragged  parapet. 
The  heat  had  whips;  it  drove  them  to  burrow 
for  lessening  shade  wherever  angles  of  the 
rocks  offered.  A  curious  cast  to  the  slice  of 
sky  visible  above  the  canon  walls  first  caught 
Bagley's  attention.  He  squinted  up  at  it  for 
a  long  moment  of  speculation. 

**If  it  wasn't  so  early  in  the  summer  I'd 
say  a  thunderhead  was  fixin'  up  to  give  us  a 
big  razoo,"  he  ventured.  Grant  looked  up  and 
noted  that  the  blue  had  turned  to  a  heavy 
saffron  tint  as  if  the  sun  were  shining  through 
a  stratum  of  light  sand;  such  a  tint  he'd  seen 
before  the  great  windstorm  on  the  day  of  Don 
Padraic's  burial. 

**If  I  could  only  look  over  the  top  of  the 
wall  yonder  to  west'ard,"  Bim  grumbled  un- 
easily. ^*  These  cloudbursts  always  come  from 
direction  of  the  Gulf.  We're  not  very  well  put 
right  here  in  the  channel  of  all  the  wash  down 
from  up  top-side.    Those  horses  now — " 

He  walked  uneasily  about  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  the  shelf,  scanning  the  upshoots  of 
[277] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

rock  for  possible  ways  out.  Then  he  seemed 
to  dismiss  possibility  of  trouble  from  his  mind 
and  returned  to  where  Grant  was  sitting. 

An  hour  passed.  Perhaps  they  were  dozing 
when  the  rattle  of  a  shower  of  rock  down  the 
canon  side  galvanized  both.  Up  there  they 
saw  the  figure  of  big  Quelele.  Like  a  wild  goat 
he  was  leaping  from  foothold  to  foothold 
downward;  he  was  in  mad  haste. 

The  big  Indian  risked  his  neck  a  dozen  times 
before  he  came  panting  up  to  the  watchers. 
He  waved  to  the  brink  of  the  cliff. 

**I  been  on  top — watching — I  see  long  way 
off — ^Urgo — rurales.    They  come — fast!" 


[278] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

stobm 

BIM  translated  Quelele's  intelligence  for 
Grant.  **Our  li'l  friend  Urge's  been 
burnin'  tbe  wind/'  was  his  dry  comment. 
Grant  sent  a  quick  glance  around  the  cul-de-sac 
of  rock  which  encompassed  them. 

**Not  the  best  place  in  the  world  to  stand 
off  ten  men,"  he  gave  his  opinion.  **We  ought 
to  get  our  backs  up  against  something  that 
can 't  be  surrounded. ' ' 

Quelele  read  the  white  man's  thoughts,  for 
he  pointed  farther  up  the  canon  beyond  the 
lava  cistern.  There  the  gorge  narrowed  to  a 
veritable  doorway  and  the  steps  thereto  were 
so  precipitous  that  one  ascending  would  have 
to  scramble  and  claw  a  way  on  hands  and 
knees;  no  possible  chance  for  a  rush  en  masse. 
Bim  surveyed  the  natural  citadel  with  the  eye 
of  a  trained  Border  man  who  occasionally  has 
to  reckon  with  such  elementals  as  the  killing 
power  of  a  rifle  bullet  and  the  protective 
quality  of  a  'dobe  wall.  Finally  he  screwed  one 
[279] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

eye  at  the  crack  of  sky  showing  between  the 
escarpments  and  shook  his  head  dubiously  at 
what  he  saw  there.  Quelele,  who  had  had  the 
superior  advantage  of  a  wider  view  from  his 
aerie  on  the  cliff  top,  bowed  his  arms  in  the 
shape  of  a  ball  and  waved  a  hand  to  the  west. 

**Papago  says  it's  a  big  storm  brewing  over 
yonder,"  Bim  explained.  **When  these  thun- 
derheads  finally  get  all  boiled  into  one  and 
come  a-runnin'  it's  a  case  of  take  to  cover. 
If  this  thing  is  the  regulation  rim-fire  sock- 
dollager  they's  goin'  be  a  sight  of  water  pass 
over  where  we're  standin'  before  long.  Me, 
I'd  rather  be  somewhere  else  than  in  this  dry 
channel. ' ' 

Grant  did  not  linger  to  discuss  strategy 
longer.  He  went  to  where  Benicia  was  sleep- 
ing in  the  shade  of  a  boulder  and  gently  touched 
her  on  the  shoulder.    The  girl  sat  up,  startled. 

**We  have  to  be  moving,"  Grant  told  her. 
**  Quelele  has  just  reported  Urgo  and  his 
rurales  out  on  the  desert  and  coming  our  way." 

**And  El  Doctor?"  she  quickly  interposed. 
**He  has  returned  from  the  cave?" 

Grant  shook  his  head.     Bitter  disappoint- 
ment flashed  into  her  eyes  at  the  realization  of 
how  fate  had  played  to  interpose  the  grim  busi- 
[280] 


;      STORM 

ness  of  a  fight  just  on  the  mintite  of  realization 
of  her  great  hopes.  Grant,  stooping  beside 
her  and  watching  the  play  of  emotions  on  her 
features,  saw  quick  remorse  chase  away  the 
frown.  Impulsively  a  brown  hand  reached  out 
to  play  upon  the  back  of  his. 

'* Grant,  beloved" — ^how  like  the  overtones 
from  her  own  golden  harp  the  contralto  rich- 
ness of  her  voice! — **I  am  desperately  selfish 
and  you  will  not  understand. — Thinking  only 
of  my  own  purpose — bringing  you  with  your 
wound  still  unhealed  out  to  this  place  to  face — 
death  perhaps. — ^And  you  do  this  for  me — " 

**  'Nicia,  little  girl — "  He  could  go  no 
farther  than  those  words,  for  the  song  in  his 
heart  was  overwhelming.  At  last — at  last  the 
trammels  of  the  girl's  heart  were  shaken  off 
and  the  call  he  'd  waited  for  so  long  had  come ! 
Call  of  the  heart  of  her  to  his. 

She  was  on  her  feet,  vibrant  with  energy, 
alive  to  the  exigencies  of  impending  action. 
Bim  was  saddling  the  horses  and  Quelele  had 
the  pack  on  the  mule  when  they  joined  them. 
Bim  briefly  explained  to  the  girl  his  survey  of 
the  gorge  for  strategical  strength;  at  any  cost 
they  must  move  up  until  they  could  find  some 
sheep  trail  or  other  practicable  ledge  giving 
[281] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

escape  from  the  flood  water  channel.  **If  that 
doddering  old  medicine  man  would  only  quit 
his  sing-song  business  and  come  back  for  a 
rifle  we'd  be  that  much  better  off,''  the  big 
fellow  grumbled. 

When  all  was  in  readiness  Quelele  led  the 
way  up  the  tortuous  watercourse  and  through 
the  mighty  gates  of  porphyry  nearly  blocking 
the  farther  reaches.  They  were  forced  to  lead 
the  animals,  whose  sure-footedness  was  put  to 
the  test  every  yard  of  the  advance.  Beyond 
the  great  pillars  the  gorge  opened  to  a  rough 
amphitheatre  with  less  steeply  sloping  sides. 
A  narrow  upward-springing  ledge  of  rock  led 
away  from  the  dry  watercourse  to  a  rock  pulpit 
some  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  feet  above. 
This  they  followed,  to  discover  there  was 
space  for  their  horses  to  stand  behind  the  horn 
of  malapais  and  still  be  screened  from  observa- 
tion from  below.  Quelele  made  some  myste- 
rious passes  with  a  tether  rope  which  yoked 
all  the  animals  to  a  single  line  that  was 
anchored  at  both  ends. 

*'Look,"  Benicia  cried  as  Bim  was  taking 
the  carbines  from  the  saddle  scabbards.  They 
followed  her  pointing  hand  and  saw  a  dark 
spot  against  the  opposite  wall  of  the  gorge  and 
higher  than  their  level.  A  midget  figure  was 
[282] 


STORM 

outlined  against  the  opening  of  a  cave.  It 
was  El  Doctor  at  his  business  of  propitiating 
Elder  Brother — El  Doctor,  much  needed  behind 
the  stock  of  a  carbine.  The  men  hallooed  to 
him  but  he  did  not  turn. 

**Go  over  and  get  that  crazy  fool,"  Bim 
commanded  Quelele.  But  the  big  Indian,  in- 
stead of  obeying  immediately,  turned  up  the 
ledge  and  made  for  a  high  point  on  the  shoul- 
der of  the  rock  bastion  constituting  one  of  the 
portals  of  the  upper  gorge.  They  watched  him 
as  he  scaled  the  almost  perpendicular  face  of 
black  lava.  From  the  top  Quelele  had  a  view 
of  the  canon's  far-away  exit  onto  the  desert 
floor  several  miles  from  the  niche  where  the 
treasure  seekers  had  refuge.  The  watchers 
saw  him  lift  himself  cautiously  over  the  top 
of  his  lookout  and  peer  to  westward.  Then  he 
came  scrambling  and  sliding  down. 

'*They  come  into  the  valley,"  the  Papago 
reported.    **Too  late  to  get  El  Doctor." 

It  was  Bim  with  his  desert  craft  who  made 
disposition  of  the  little  force  of  defence. 
Quelele  he  sent  back  to  the  aerie  with  orders 
not  to  shoot  until  he  heard  shots  from  the 
whites;  the  Indian's  fire  from  the  rear,  once 
Urgo  and  his  men  had  passed  the  rocky 
portals,  would  throw  the  rurales  into  confu- 
[283] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

sion.  Grant  and  Benicia  lie  disposed  beMnd 
an  outcrop  of  porphyry  a  little  behind  and 
above  the  protected  animals. 

**Pick  '  em  off  as  they  come  through  the 
Gate,''  he  suggested.  **An'  don't  try  any 
fancy  shooting;  we  haven't  got  any  too  many 
cartridges." 

'*But  you — ?"  Benicia  began.  >  The  Arizonan 
grinned  broadly. 

**Me,  I  always  fancy  a  little  solo  game  in 
this  sort  of  rukus.  I'm  going  on  t'other  side 
of  the  gulch.  Cross-fire,  you  sabe?"  He  left 
them  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  they  watched 
him  jumping  lightly  down  from  rock  to  rock. 
Almost  before  he  had  begun  to  clamber  up  the 
opposite  wall  he  was  lost  to  view  amid  the  maze 
of  fissure  and  castellated  boulder.  Grant  and 
the  girl  were  stretched  out  behind  their  primi- 
tive breastwork  alone  in  this  unfinished  world 
of  fire.  They  could  see  neither  Quelele  nor  Bag- 
ley.  Came  to  their  ears  the  faint  drone  of  bar- 
baric song :  El  Doctor  Coyote  Belly  at  his  trai- 
torous devotions. 

The  whole  gorge  was  filled  with  a  saffron 
glare  like  the  reflection  from  oil  fires  under 
a  boiler,  unworldly,  portentous. 

They  waited,  these  two,  in  the  immensity  of 
[284] 


STORM 

earth's  disgorged  bowels.  Side  by  side,  elbows 
touching,  they  counted  the  slow  drag  of  minutes 
as  naught  in  the  balance  against  the  deep  joy 
of  love  militant. 

A  stir  in  the  bed  of  the  dry  wash  below 
them.  Up  went  their  carbines  with  cheeks  laid 
against  wood  and  eyes  sighting  along  the 
lances  of  light.  Again  the  stir  down  there.  A 
gaunt  figure  rose  from  hand  and  knees  to  its 
feet,  stood  swaying  for  an  instant,  then  pitched 
forward  against  the  support  of  a  slab  of  rock. 

A  very  leprechaun  of  the  rocks  was  it:  ribs 
creasing  burned  skin  about  the  naked  torso; 
whity-grey  hair  streaming  down  to  mingle 
with  a  beard;  bare  arms  like  a  spider's  legs 
and  all  cracked  by  the  sun.  The  husk  of  Doc 
Stooder,  plaything  of  the  desert  god,  was  come 
here,  following  the  still  living  spark  of  instinct 
prompting  a  water  search  in  a  canyon.  Come, 
too,  to  the  secret  hiding  place  of  the  treasure 
whose  glitter  had  so  mercilessly  befooled  him. 

Grant,  stupefied  by  the  apparition  of  death 
and  failing  in  any  recognition  of  the  skeleton 
thing  as  the  bibulous  doctor  of  Arizora,  sus- 
pected a  trick  of  Urgo.  Again  he  laid  his  eye 
along  his  rifle  sight,  vigilant  for  what  might 
ensue.  The  creature  spread-eagled  against  the 
[285] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESEET 

rock  slowly  pushed  itself  upright  with  its 
hands;  its  shaggy  head  turned  wearily  as 
thirsting  eyes  scanned  the  dry  chasm. 

Then  a  shout  from  across  the  gorge.  Bagley 
had  leaped  from  his  hiding  place  and  was  rush- 
ing precariously  down  to  succour  the-  ghost. 
Just  as  he  reached  Stooder  and  had  thrown 
an  arm  about  him  to  heave  his  wasted  form 
onto  a  shoulder  the  crack  of  a  rifle  shivered  the 
gorge's  silence.  Eock  dust  spurted  withiu  a 
foot  of  the  rescuer. 

The  sun  went  out  that  second — instantly, 
like  a  powerful  incandescent  switched  off.  A 
yellow  penumbra  tinged  the  darkness. 

Almost  as  one  the  rifles  of  Grant  and  Benicia 
jetted  lead.  Two  more  shots  from  the  dry 
wash.  The  giant  figure  of  Bagley  with 
Stooder  limp  over  one  shoulder  never  faltered 
in  its  leaping  and  scrambling  up  the  declivity 
to  the  shelter  he  had  quitted.  The  two  who 
had  been  following  his  flight  with  stilled  hearts 
saw  him  disappear  behind  a  great  rock;  an 
instant  and  a  jet  of  fire  lanced  down  thence 
at  the  attackers  by  the  Gate. 

A  blob  of  rain  large  as  a  Mexican  dollar 
smacked  on  Benicia 's  hand  as  she  pumped  the 
ejector — another  and  a  third.  Then  the  gorge 
[286] 


STORM 

was  blasted  by  a  thunder  shock  amid  the  peaks, 
and  a  stab  of  lightning  painted  the  whole  pit 
sulphurous  blue.  By  its  flash  the  defenders 
saw  scurrying  figures  leaping  from  rock  to 
rock  in  the  stream  bed.  Quelele,  the  quick  of 
eye,  fired  his  first  shot  by  the  light  of  storm 
fire;  one  of  the  rurales  went  down  like  a  wet 
sack. 

A  second  stunning  burst  of  thunder  which 
knocked  out  the  underpinning  of  the  sky.  Then 
deluge. 

It  was  not  rain  that  fell;  it  was  solid  water 
in  sheets  and  cones  which  hissed  with  the  speed 
of  its  descent.  Water  so  compacted  that  it 
was  like  a  river  on  edge,  engulfing.  With  it 
the  almost  continuous  quiver  and  jerk  of  elec- 
trical flame.  The  gorge  was  become  a  watery 
hell.  More  than  that,  for  Urgo  and  his  men 
in  the  wash  it  threatened  momentarily  to  be 
their  tomb.  Already  a  white  streak  of  foam 
in  the  lightning  flashes  marked  where  the  once 
bone-dry  watercourse  was  changing  character. 

The  rurales  and  their  leader  found  the  odds 
all  of  a  sudden  snatched  from  their  hands  by 
this  frenzied  ally  of  the  hunted  girl  and  her 
supporters.  They  had  come  eleven  against 
five,  with  their  quarry  caught  in  a  hole  in  the 
[287] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

Pinacate  sierra;  before  the  cloudburst  had 
endured  three  minutes  Urgo  realized  he  had 
let  himself  and  his  men  into  a  fatal  trap. 
Their  horses,  confidently  left  behind  them  in 
the  lower  reaches  of  the  gorge,  must  already 
have  stampeded  under  the  lash  of  the  storm. 
Spiteful  rifle  flashes  from  both  sides  came  with 
each  baleful  flicker  of  fire  from  the  sky  to  deny 
escape  from  the  rising  waters  up  either  wall 
of  the  chasm. 

Now  a  dull  roaring  above  the  waterfall  of 
the  rain  began  to  fill  the  gash  in  the  sierra. 
Away  back  at  the  head  of  the  gorge  and  where 
the  slope  from  the  twin  volcano  peaks  shed 
water  as  from  steep  roofs  into  this  common 
trough,  a  solid  wall,  capped  dull  white,  came 
with  the  speed  of  a  meteor  down  and  down 
through  the  channel  in  the  living  rock.  It  rolled 
boulders  the  size  of  box-cars  in  its  flood;  a 
chevaux-de-frise  of  barbed  cactus  and  scrub 
trees  tumbled  at  its  crest. 

Even  above  the  tumult  of  the  deluge  sounded 
the  shrill  alarm  of  the  rurales  as  they  broke 
position  and  turned  to  flee  through  the  Gate. 
But  already  the  flood  was  there,  choking  egress. 
They  must  scramble  up  the  sides  of  the  gorge 
like  rats  from  a  flooded  hold;  they  must  grope 
and  cling  by  every  illuminating  flash  of  blue 
[288] 


STORM 

fire,  waiting  to  see  where  the  next  handhold 
lay,  how  near  the  hungry  yellow  waters  rushed. 

With  Grant  and  the  girl  was  nothing  but 
security.  Unprotected,  they  had  bent  their 
heads  to  the  pounding  mallets  of  water.  When 
the  firing  abruptly  ceased  at  the  rush  of  their 
attackers  for  safety  Grant  heard  the  scream 
of  a  horse  near  at  hand  and  remembered  their 
tethered  animals.  Should  they  break  away  in 
their  fright  the  plight  of  all  five  would  be  a 
desperate  one. 

**Stay  here!''  he  shouted  in  Benicia's  ear. 
"Going  to  the  horses!" 

Grant  crawled  and  groped  his  way  over  the 
slippery  rocks,  each  seeming  to  be  alive  with 
the  film  of  rushing  water  across  it.  He  clam- 
bered down  and  to  the  right  until  he  came  to 
the  pulpit  rock  behind  which  the  beasts  had 
been  tethered  by  Quelele.  The  mule  he  found 
down,  hopelessly  noosed  in  his  hobble  rope  and 
slowly  strangling ;  the  horses  were  huddled, 
tails  to  the  storm,  dripping  and  dejected. 

It  took  several  minutes'  precarious  work  to 
get  the  pack-animal  to  his  feet  and  freshly 
tethered.  Then  Grant  began  the  retreat  to  the 
breastwork  where  he  had  left  the  girl.  It  was 
largely  a  matter  of  guesswork.  Once  he  found 
himself  against  an  unscalable  wall  and  had  to 
[289] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

retrace  his  steps.  Another  time  one  foot 
slipped  and  he  caught  himself  with  his  body- 
halfway  over  the  brink. 

A  flash  of  lightning  showed  him  two  rifles 
lying  side  by  side  on  a  ledge  below  him — ^his 
rifle  and  Benicia's;  but  the  girl  was  gone.  The 
fist  of  fear  smote  him  terrifically. 

He  screamed  her  name  above  the  bellowing 
of  the  flood  in  the  wash.  No  answer.  He  ran 
along  the  ledge  that  had  been  theirs  until  he 
came  to  a  downward  terrace ;  to  that  he  leaped 
and  along  its  blind  way  he  fumbled.  Came  the 
ghost  of  a  scream,  thin  above  the  diapason  all 
about.    His  name — *  *  Grant ! ' ' 

Then  merciful  lightning  blazed  blue  and  he 
saw.  Below  him  on  a  broad  shelf  which  over- 
hung the  whiteness  of  the  torrent  two  figures, 
glistening  like  seals,  were  locked — they  swayed. 

The  man  launched  himself  blindly  out  and 
down.  He  rolled;  he  slipped  and  wallowed 
against  and  under  great  boulders.  At  the  end 
of  seconds  seeming  aeons  he  came  to  the  rock 
apron  where  he  had  seen  the  struggling  shapes. 
Sound  of  stertorous  breathing  guided  him.  He 
rose  from  his  knees  before  Benicia  and  an- 
other, who  was  trying  to  drag  her  along  the 
ledge.  A  revealing  flash  of  fire  gave  him  just 
a  ghmpse  of  a  weasel  face — Colonel  Urgo. 
[290] 


STORM 

Not  so  much  rage  as  loathly  horror  of  an 
unclean  thing  sped  furious  summons  to  every 
muscle  spring  in  his  body.  With  his  shoulder 
planted  against  the  Spaniard's  chest  for  a 
leverage  Grant  tore  loose  the  man's  grip  from 
Benicia.  Before  he  could  whirl  to  shift  his 
attack  Urgo  had  screamed  an  oath  and  was  on 
the  American's  back,  legs  twining  to  cumber 
Grant's  thighs,  both  hands  clamped  about  his 
throat.    It  was  the  catamount's  attack. 

The  first  impact  of  his  antagonist's  weight 
nearly  over-balanced  Grant  and  precipitated 
both  into  the  maelstrom  of  waters  not  six  feet 
below  their  ledge.  But,  steadying  himself,  the 
American  suddenly  launched  backward,  pinning 
the  lighter  body  on  his  back  against  a  wall  of 
rock.  It  was  a  terrific  smash.  Urgo's  breath 
came  in  a  whistle  from  it.  His  hands  sank 
deeper  into  the  muscles  about  Grant's  throat, 
closing  his  windpipe.  Deliberately  the  stand- 
ing man  took  a  few  forward  steps,  then  swiftly 
back  against  the  wall  again.  An  elbow  of  rock 
found  the  Spaniard's  ribs  and  cracked  two.  He 
shrieked. 

Now  Grant's  hands  went  up  to  lock  behind 

the  head  that  sagged  over  his  right  shoulder. 

Strength  of  desperation  flooded  into  his  arms, 

for  the  weaker  man  had  him  throttled.    Urgo 

[291] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

must  release  his  hold  on  Grant's  throat  or  suf- 
fer a  broken  neck.  The  constricting  hands 
slackened  their  grip  ever  so  little.  Grant  bowed 
his  shoulders,  gave  a  mighty  heave  and  swept 
the  Colonel's  body  over  his  shoulder  in  a  wide 
arc.  The  man  sprawled,  arms  wide,  through  the 
air,  struck  the  edge  of  the  rocky  apron.  He 
clawed — slipped — clawed  again,  and  disap- 
pear 


[292] 


CHAPTER  XXV 

TBEASURE  TROVE 

THE  storm  ceased  with  the  same  suddemiess 
as  it  began.  Hardly  an  hour  had  torren- 
tial waters  lashed  the  cinder  wastes  of  Pinacate 
when  the  black  pall  over  the  heavens  broke 
away  and  the  sun  came  out  to  suck  hungrily 
at  pools  in  the  rocks.  There  was  a  headiness 
of  wine  in  the  air,  a  smell  of  wet  soil  mingled 
with  spicy  emanations  from  greasewood  and 
palo  verde.  The  desert  *s  sparse  growing 
things  exulted  in  the  breaking  of  long  drought. 
For  a  long  time  Grant  and  Benicia  on  their 
side  of  the  gorge  and  Bim  in  his  retreat  oppo- 
site lay  hidden,  awaiting  possible  renewal  of 
the  attack  which  the  storm  had  scattered.  But 
the  torrent  that  still  raged  down  the  bottom 
of  the  gorge  had  washed  clean  every  vestige 
of  an  enemy.  Quelele  on  his  high  post  saw 
four  scattered  horsemen  rushing  pell-mell  for 
the  gateway  onto  the  desert — ^last  vestige  of 
Urge's  rurales  force,  each  man  of  which  gave 
thanks  to  his  patron  saint  that  he  had  come 
[293] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

out  of  the  hell  in  the  moniitain  cul-de-sac  with 
a  whole  skin. 

Quelele  also  saw  several  specks  dropping 
earthward  from  the  clear  blue;  specks  which 
rapidly  grew  from  the  size  of  gnats  to  the 
spread  of  small  aeroplanes.  King  condors 
they,  who  had  smelled  a  feast  from  afar — 
loathsome  birds  with  a  wing  spread  covering 
the  span  of  thirteen  feet.  The  coming  of  one 
of  these  foul  creatures  to  his  particular  ban- 
quet even  the  sharp  eye  of  a  Papago  watcher 
could  not  discern,  for  the  scene  was  hidden 
from  him  by  a  shoulder  of  the  canon  wall. 

A  stunted  palo  verde  tree  nearly  stripped  of 
its  verdure  by  the  whips  of  the  rain  hung  half- 
uprooted  over  the  rapidly  diminishing  stream 
in  the  wash.  One  branch  had  caught  and  held 
some  flotsam  from  the  high  flood,  now  clear 
of  the  water.  Just  a  shapeless  bundle  of 
clothes,  lolling  head,  arms  askew  where  broken 
bones  had  let  inert  flesh  sag  to  the  current. 
Just  a  grim  caricature  of  something  which  so 
recently  had  walked  in  the  pride  of  his  imagin- 
ings. 

The   condor  flopped   clumsily   to    a   branch 

stub    six    feet    distant    from    the    bundle    of 

clothes,   folded  his   great   wings   with   a   dry 

rustling  of  feathers,  blinked  the  red  lids  of  his 

[294] 


TREASURE  TROVE 

eyes  to  focus  Ms  vision  for  expert  inspection 
and  studied  the  hank  of  cloth  and  flesh  sus- 
pended in  the  tree  crotch.  The  thing  which 
flood  waters  had  brought  stirred  slightly;  eyes 
opened  with  a  flutter.  They  met  the  critical 
gaze  of  the  feathered  pariah  on  the  stub. 
The  condor  acknowledged  this  unexpected  show 
of  life  on  his  banquet  table  by  disturbed  bob- 
bings  of  the  naked  yellow  head — the  skin  on 
his  poll  was  wrinkled  as  an  old  man's — ^and  a 
bringing  of  his  off  eye  to  bear  around  his  sabre 
beak  with  the  skew-like  movement  of  a  hen 
sighting  a  worm. 

The  wreck  in  the  bundle  of  clothes  opened 
his  lips  to  scream  but  the  ghost  of  a  groan 
came  instead.  It  tried  to  lift  a  fending  arm 
against  the  abomination  so  near;  the  muscles 
tugged  at  broken  bones. 

The  condor  appraised  these  manifestations 
of  life  carefully,  weighed  them  by  contrast 
with  his  experiences  with  crippled  sheep  and 
helpless  calves.  His  talons  stirred  restlessly 
on  the  branch.  First  one,  then  the  other  lifted 
from  the  bark,  stretched  and  flexed.  The  king 
of  the  higher  airs  was  impatient.  He  spread 
his  wings  to  balance  him  and  clumsily  hopped  a 
few  feet  nearer,  craning  his  wattled  neck 
anxiously. 

[295] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

A  shadow  passed  swiftly  over  the  polo  verde 
tree.  A  quick  upward  twist  of  the  head  gave  the 
condor  view  of  a  putative  and  too-anxious  fel- 
low guest  at  the  bounty  spread  there.  Greedi- 
ness pushed  him.  He  spread  his  wings  and 
hopped  again — 

Then  the  desert  exacted  with  cruelty  recom- 
pense for  the  cruelties  of  Colonel  Hamilcar 
TJrgo.  Abomination  of  his  passing  was  meted 
him  according  to  the  abominations  of  his  own 
devising. 

An  hour  after  the  last  rain  drop  the  flood 
waters  in  the  gorge  had  dropped  to  permit 
of  reunion  between  the  erstwhile  defenders 
of  the  pass.  Grant  waded  waist  deep  with 
Benicia  in  his  arms;  Bim,  all  smiles,  was 
stretching  out  a  hand  from  the  off-side  rocks. 

**Well,  folks  all,  looks  like  a  pleasant  time 
was  enjoyed  by  all  and  one!''  The  big  Ari- 
zonan's  spirits  would  permit  of  no  more  con- 
crete thanksgiving  for  a  crisis  passed.  It  was 
his  way  to  find  laughter  the  only  vehicle  for 
suppressed  emotions  and  whimsicalities  the 
best  conveyance  for  thoughts  which  might 
sound  ^*high-falutin'."  The  three  stood  mute, 
their  eyes  telling  one  another  things  which 
might  have  come  flattened  and  blunted  in 
speech. 

[296] 


TREASURE  TROVE 

**See  me  welcome  an  old  visitor  just  before 
the  curtain  went  up  on  the  first  act?"  Bim 
turned  to  Grant,  his  eyes  shining  excitement. 
'*Who  d'you  think?  Ole  Doc  Stooder!" 
Grant  gasped  in  surprise.  His  paPs  grin 
faded  as  he  added  seriously: 

**Just  about  the  end  of  his  string,  too.  The 
rain  sure  saved  him — couldn't  have  lasted  an- 
other hour — one  chance  in  a  thousand  brought 
him  here  where  they's  folks  to  look  out  for  him 
— a  friend,  even,  to  coddle  him  back  to  health." 

**No,  not  one  chance  in  a  thousand,"  Benicia 
caught  him  up  with  deep  seriousness  in  her 
voice.  *^It  is  the  desert  way — to  play  with 
destiny,  I  mean,  and  seem  to  cause  miracles. — 
But  let  me  go  to  him  if  he  needs  attention." 
She  started  forward,  but  Bim  put  out  a  stay- 
ing hand. 

*'I  wouldn't,  ma'am.  The  Doc's  not  a  purty 
sight  right  now.  His  body's  just  drinMn'  in 
all  the  water  that  landed  on  him  an'  he's  sorta 
in  a  daze — doesn't  say  much  of  anything  that 
makes  sense.  A  little  food  which  I'm  goin'  to 
brew  if  I  can  find  some  dry  sticks  of  wood  any- 
where's  round — "  Simple  charity  dictated 
that  Bim  say  no  word  of  conjecture  as  to  what 
brought  Stooder  to  the  desert.  He  guessed 
full  weU. 

[297] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

El  Doctor  Coyote  Belly  seemed  to  be  mate- 
rialized from  the  rocks  so  noiselessly  had  he 
approached  the  group.  The  old  man's  face 
was  ashen;  ungnessable  terrors  he  had  fought 
with  and  hardly  conquered  since  last  the  three 
had  seen  him  standing  in  the  yellow  storm  glare 
before  the  cave  of  Elder  Brother. 

**If  my  daughter  will  come  now  to  the  house 
of  litoi,"  he  said  to  the  girl  in  his  native 
tongue,  **she  may  take  what  litoi  gives.  The 
god  has  expressed  his  displeasure  by  the  storm 
— ^but  he  will  give.'' 

Benicia  turned  and  put  a  wordless  question 
to  Grant.  They  started  together  to  climb  the 
precipitous  rock  ladder  up  the  side  of  the 
gorge  wall,  El  Doctor  leading.  Thirty  minutes ' 
exhaustive  effort  brought  them  to  the  approach 
of  a  high-roofed  cavern  into  which  the  wester- 
ing sun  laid  a  broad  carpet  of  light.  There  in 
the  shale  before  the  cave  mouth  were  El  Doc- 
tor's pitiful  presents  to  the  god — the  arrow 
and  prayer  stick  wedged  upright,  the  beads 
and  tobacco  in  a  small  basket.  The  whole 
ground  about  was  littered  with  the  shards  of 
sacrificial  pottery  and  scraps  of  basketry. 

Benicia  motioned  to  El  Doctor  to  lead  the 
way  into  the  cave,  but  he  shook  his  head  in 
emphatic  negative.  Then  she  gave  Grant  a 
[298] 


TREASURE  TROVE 

strange  smile,  almost  that  of  a  child  who  awaits 
revelation  of  a  mystery.  He  saw  in  deep  pools 
of  her  eyes  a  transcendent  joy  made  almost 
pain  by  this  moment  of  hope  achieved.  She 
held  out  her  hand  for  him  to  take  and  they 
entered  the  cave. 

When  their  eyes  had  become  accustomed  to 
the  sudden  transition  from  glaring  sunlight 
into  gloom  a  faint  glimmering  at  the  far  end 
of  the  sunlight  path  guided  them.  Ankle-deep 
in  the  dust  of  ages  they  groped.  The  glimmer 
waxed  stronger.  Suddenly  Benicia  stopped 
with  a  catching  of  the  breath.  Grant  stooped 
and  lifted  a  heavy  object  from  a  niche  of  rock, 
bringing  it  into  the  filtered  stream  of  radiance. 

It  was  a  golden  monstrance,  dust  coated. 
Faint  twinkles  of  light  glowed  like  firefly  lamps 
from  jewels  set  in  the  radii  of  a  glory.  A  great 
diamond  above  the  crystal  box  caught  fire  from 
the  sun. 

As  Grant  hastily  bent  to  replace  the  sacred 
vessel  his  hand  tipped  the  edge  of  a  shallow 
basket.  From  it  rolled  a  stream  of  moonbeam 
fire  out  into  the  zone  of  sunshine.  Liquid 
globules  of  moon-glow,  round  and  pellucid  as 
ice  crystals,  seductive  as  the  shadowed  white- 
ness of  a  woman's  throat:  the  green  pearls  of 
the  Virgin  stripped  by  the  impiety  of  El  Rojo 
[299] 


DUST  OF  THE  DESERT 

from   the   shrine    of   the   Four   Evangelists  I 

Benicia  slowly  sank  to  her  knees,  words  of 
prayer  whispered  from  her  lips.  Prayer  of 
thankfulness  and  dedication  of  the  lost  treasure 
to  the  sanctity  of  the  Church. 

Grant  felt  his  presence  in  this  solenm 
moment  was  an  intrusion.  He  tip-toed  back 
to  the  mouth  of  the  cave  and  stood  looking 
out.  All  the  wildness  and  the  savagery  of 
Altar's  secret  fane  of  the  desert  god  lay  burn- 
ing and  glistening  with  wetness  in  the  wester- 
ing sun.  The  waning  torrent,  sardonic  gesture 
of  plenty  in  this  ultimate  citadel  of  thirst, 
splashed  jewels  against  the  lancing  light.  Here 
was  a  world  of  the  primordial — Creation  ar- 
rested in  its  first  hour. 

A  hand  touched  his  arm  lightly.  He  turned 
to  find  Benicia  standing  beside  him.  The  sun 
wove  an  aura  of  vivid  fire  about  her  head. 
Her  eyes  raised  to  his  were  swimming. 

**Now,  heart  of  my  heart,''  she  whispered. 
And  all  the  love  fire  in  her  flamed  from  her 
lips. 

THE  END 


[300] 


xnasaa  hhx  jo  xsna 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BET.OW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE   ASSESSED   FOR   FAILURE  TO    RETURN 
THIS   BOOK   ON    THE   DATE   DUE.    THE   PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH          ' 
DAY     AND     TO    $1.00     ON     THE    SEVENTH     DAY 
OVERDUE. 

MAR  11  1934 

MAR    24  1934 

ItIM      1  1    IQQi 

JUIM     IX  iyo4 

^^^^'''' 

3#^ 

- 

i 

Y.C  95514 


489475       ^/,; 

c/c/ 


